YOUNG 
EARNEST 


BERTCANNAN 


YOUNG  EARNEST 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

THE  ROMANCE  OF  A 
BAD  START  IN  LIFE 


BY 

GILBERT  CANNAN 

Author  of  "Old  Mole,"  "Round  the  Corner." 


NEW  YORK 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 
1915 


Now  my  question  is :  have  you  a  scheme  of  life 

consonant  with  the  spirit  of  modern  philosophy 

— with  the  views  of  intelligent,  moral,  humane 

human  beings  of  this  period  ? 

THE  ADVENTURES  or  HARRY  RICHMOND. 


COPYRIGHT,  1915,  BY 
D.  APPLETON  AND   COMPANY 


To 
O.   M. 

Words  skilled  and  woven  do  not  make  a  book 
Except  some  truth  in  beauty  shine  in  it. 
I  bring  you  this  because  you  overlook 
My  faults  to  follow  out  my  probing  wit. 
And  where  it  fails  or  falls  short  of  its  aim, 
You  see  design  and  waste  nor  praise  nor  blame 
On  the  achievement.    Stirring  to  the  will, 
Your  wit  still  urges  mine  to  greater  skill. 


203G2G7 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  ONE 
LINDA  BROCK 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     LOVE  IN  EARNEST      ......  3 

II.     166  HOG  LANE  WEST  ......  13 

III.  GEORGE  MARRIED                         *        *        .        .  29 

IV.  A  RETURN                                   •.        .        .        .  41 
V.     SETTLING  DOWN 51 

VI.     PROFESSOR  SMALLMAN 60 

VII.     FLYING  NEAR  THE  CANDLE        ....  71 

VIII.     INTIMACY 85 

IX.     PATERFAMILIAS   .......  98 

X.     HONEYMOON        .**.*..  109 

XI.     MATRIMONY 130 

XII.     ESCAPE        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  147 

BOOK  TWO 
ANN  PIDDUCK 

I.     ADVENTURE  IN  LONDON 157 

II.     MITCHAM  MEWS         ......  169 

III.  MR.  MARTIN        .......  182 

IV.  LEARNING  A  TRADE  ......  196 

V.  TOGETHER                                      .        •.        •.  206 

VI.       KlLNER .  219 

VII.     OLD  LUNT  ....*.*.  226 

vii 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

VIII.     RITA  AND  JOE 236 

IX.     TALK  .........  254 

X.     AN  ENCOUNTER  .......  270 

XL    VISION 277 

XII.     SETTLEMENT        ....*..  285 

BOOK  THREE 
CATHLEEN  BENTLEY 

I.     MEETING 301 

II.     HAPPINESS 311 

III.  THE  WEST  WIND      ......  322 

IV.  EXPLANATION     .        .        .        *        .        .        •  331 
V.     THRIGSBY    ........  343 

VI.     THE  COMFORT  OF  RELIGION       ....  362 

VII.     CASEY'S  VENTURE      ......  370 

VIII.  THRIVING 382 

IX.     YOUNG  LOVE  DREAMING            .        ,        „  388 


BOOK  ONE 
LINDA   BROCK 


Ha!  Ha! 
So  you  take  human  nature  upon  trust? 


LOVE  IN   EARNEST 

O  that  joy  so  soon  should  waste 

Or  so  sweet  a  bliss 

As  a  kiss 
Might  not  forever  last! 

IT  annoyed  the  young  man  that  at  such  a  time,  in 
such  a  place,  he  should  be  thinking  of  his  father. 
Waiting  for  his  beloved,  he  desired  to  have  no  thought 
but  for  her ;  most  loyal  intention  sadly  unfulfilled,  for 
he  could  think  only  of  his  father,  first  as  a  wondrous 
being  who  could  skillfully  become  at  will  an  elephant  or 
a  zebra,  or  more  tranquilly  fascinate  and  absorb  by 
waggling  his  ears  with  no  disturbance  of  his  face. 
The  young  man,  John  Rene  Fourmy,  could  more 
clearly  remember  his  father's  ears  than  his  features. 
He  was  introspective  enough  to  know  that  his  tender- 
ness for  the  young  woman,  his  melting  anticipation  of 
her  coming,  had  led  him  back  to  the  first  adoration 
of  his  life,  and  from  that  to  the  tragedy  of  its  oblitera- 
tion. 

Came  the  distressing  recollection  of  his  father's 
downfall,  devastating  for  the  boy  of  three  who  had 
witnessed  it.  He  could  visualize  it  clearly,  so  sharp 
had  been  the  cruel  impression,  the  indignity  of  it.  The 
bedroom  in  the  little  house  in  the  country  where  they 

3 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

had  lived  near  Billy  Lummas  and  Sam  Ardwick,  who 
had  fits  in  the  road.  A  room  full  of  bed.  In  that  bed 
his  father  and  himself  eager  for  the  moment  when 
his  father  should  arise  from  his  bed  and  fill  the  world, 
and  his  mother  apparently  just  as  eager  because  she 
was  entreating  and  imploring.  Only  the  more  did  his 
father  wrap  himself  in  the  bedclothes.  These  sud- 
denly were  torn  down  amid  peals  of  laughter;  a  fond 
scuffle,  though  the  boy  perceived  not  the  fondness; 
up  went  his  father's  nightshirt,  his  long  body  was 
turned  over  and  it  was  slapped  resoundingly  on  that 
place  considerately  designed  by  nature  to  receive  such 
onslaughts.  The  slapping  was  done  with  the  back 
of  a  hairbrush,  an  instrument  that,  in  alternation  with 
a  slipper,  was  used  upon  himself.  That  a  man,  that 
a  glorious  father  should  suffer,  and,  because  he  suf- 
fered, deserve  such  an  indignity,  was  too  much.  A 
shadow  came  over  the  world,  and  Rene  remembered 
flinging  himself  down  by  the  bed  and  shedding  pas- 
sionate tears  for  the  departed  glory.  Thereafter  his 
father  was  no  wonder  to  him,  he  too  was  subject  to  the 
authority  of  his  mother,  and  became  henceforth  only 
a  tyrannous  buffoon,  nervously  kind  or  noisily  angry. 
Then  Rene  remembered  the  return  from  the  coun- 
try to  a  succession  of  houses  in  streets;  his  father 
just  risen  from  his  bed  as  he  came  home  to  dinner 
at  midday;  bottles  of  whisky  and  boxes  of  cigarettes. 
And  when  at  school  they  asked  him  what  his  father 
was,  he  used  to  reply,  "A  gentleman.  And  he  went 
to  a  public  school,"  that  being  the  formula  which 
had  been  given  to  him  to  account  for  existence  and 

4 


LOVE  IN  EARNEST 

all  its  puzzlements.  Public  school  and  heaven  were 
for  a  long  time  confounded  in  his  mind,  and  the  for- 
mula had  accounted  adequately  for  his  father's  Elijah- 
like  disappearance  from  the  scene  when  Rene  was  ten. 

That  was  all  he  knew,  and  there  was  the  sting  of 
injustice  in  this  present  intrusion  in  the  Scottish  glen, 
hallowed  by  the  delights  of  a  young  love  which  boy 
and  girl  had  arranged  should  shake  the  world  into  a 
wonder  at  its  glory.  A  sordid  family  history  was  a 
clog  upon  romance,  and  our  young  man  was  that  ear- 
nest creature,  a  romantic. 

A  stolen  love,  for  she  lived  at  the  great  house  taken 
by  her  father  for  the  sport  of  the  autumn  months, 
and  he  was  staying  with  his  great-aunt  Janet,  an  ex- 
governess,  in  the  village,  as  he  had  done  ever  since  he 
was  eleven,  for  his  holidays. 

Now  he  was  nearly  twenty,  wonderfully  in  love, 
punctual  to  his  appointment,  striving  for  romantic 
thoughts  and  able  to  achieve  nothing  but  these  humili- 
ating memories  of  his  father.  He  tried  singing;  that 
was  of  no  avail.  It  did  but  call  to  mind  his  father's 
songs.  He  threw  pebbles  into  the  burn,  but  they  gave 
him  no  amusement.  Then  from  his  pocket  he  drew  an 
anthology  of  love — poems  from  which  he  had  been  ac- 
customed to  read  to  his  fair — and  so  he  lulled  himself 
to  something  near  the  warm  mood  of  expectancy  and 
began  to  tell  himself  that  she  was  very  late,  that  she 
had  failed  him  on  this  their  last  day.  There  was  a 
sort  of  sweet  anguish  in  the  disappointment  which 
he  liked  so  much  that  he  was  almost  put  out  when 
she  came. 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

He  leaped  to  his  feet  and  opened  his  arms  and  she 
sank  into  them,  and  an  enchantment  descended  upon 
them  and  they  kissed. 

He  had  prepared  for  her  a  couch  of  bracken.  On 
this  they  lay  and  kissed  again.  This  kiss  was  tragic. 
The  enchantment  broke  in  the  middle,  and  he  found 
the  proximity  of  her  face  ridiculous  and  embarrassing 
and  his  position  uncomfortable.  He  did  not  tell  her 
so,  and  a  simulated  rapture  hid  his  feelings  from  her. 
She  sighed: 

"Oh,  Rene!" 

The  sound  of  his  name  on  her  lips  never  failed  to 
move  him,  and  a  little  of  the  enchantment  returned. 
He  could  endure  her  nearness,  and  gave  her  an  af- 
fectionate little  hug  quite  genuinely  warm.  It  sur- 
prised her  into  happy  laughter. 

"Oh,  Rene!  it  has  been  more  beautiful  this  year 
even  than  last.  Of  course  we're  older.  Do  you  think 
it  goes  on  for  ever  and  ever,  year  after  year,  grow- 
ing more  and  more  beautiful?" 

"Very  few  lovers "  began  Rene  in  a  solemn 

voice,  but  at  once  the  generalization  offended  him 
and  he  never  reached  his  predicate.  The  subject 
seemed  entirely  to  satisfy  Cathleen.  She  took  his 
hand  in  hers : 

"We  mustn't  stop  writing  to  each  other  again." 

"It  was  you  who  stopped." 

"I  thought " 

"It  made  it  very  horrid  meeting  you  again,  very 
anxious,  I  mean — I  mean  I  don't  know  what  your  life 
is  like." 

6 


LOVE  IN  EARNEST 

"You  know  I  shall  never  find  anyone  like  you,  Rene, 
never." 

He  thought  with  distaste  of  her  brothers,  robust, 
athletic  young  men,  wonderfully  tailored,  with  a 
knack  of  getting  the  last  ounce  of  effect  out  of  soap 
and  water.  Dirt  avoided  them;  they  could  not  be 
shabby  or  untidy,  and  they  made  him  feel  grubby  and 
shrunken.  Oxford  and  Cambridge  they  were,  and 
they  stared  him  into  a  sort  of  silly  shame  when  he 
spoke  of  his  university,  Thrigsby,  and  yet,  through 
his  shame  there  would  dart  tremors  of  a  fierce  feel- 
ing of  moral  superiority.  Anyhow,  their  sister  loved 
him,  and  never  "chipped"  him  as  their  young  women 
"chipped"  them.  There  was  never  any  sign  that  their 
young  women  took  them  seriously. 

"I  will  write,"  said  Cathleen.  "This  year  won't 
seem  so  long.  I  couldn't  be  certain,  last  year." 

"Are  you  certain  now?" 

"Oh,  Rene!" 

This  time  the  enchantment  was  full  on  them,  raced 
through  them,  alarmed  them.  They  moved  a  little 
apart. 

"Let's  talk  sense,"  said  he.    "I  want  to  marry  you." 

"Oh,  yes." 

"They  won't  let  me,  you  know.  I've  got  my  own 
way  to  make.  In  three  years  you'll  be  twenty-one.  I 
shall  probably  have  to  stay  in  Thrigsby  because  I  can 
make  a  living  there,  but  I'll  get  to  London  as  soon  as 
I  can.  You  wouldn't  like  Thrigsby." 

"Anywhere   with  you." 

"The  people  there  aren't  your  sort.    My  own  peo- 

7 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

pie  won't  like  my  marrying  so  young.  I've  got  rotten 
uncles  and  aunts  backing  me  because  they  think  I'm 
clever.  I  should  have  been  in  business  long  ago  if 
it  hadn't  been  for  them.  My  brother's  in  a  shipping 
office " 

"What  did  your  father  do?" 

He  shifted  uneasily  on  that.  The  formula  seemed 
empty  and  a  little  vulgar,  somehow  grimy,  to  present 
to  her.  He  answered: 

"He  drank  whisky  and  smoked  cigarettes." 

"Oh!  I'm  sorry." 

Almost  imperceptibly  she  shrank  away  from  him, 
but  he  saw  it. 

"You  may  as  well  know.  We're  no  great  shakes. 
My  old  Aunt  Janet  talks  of  the  great  people  she  has 
known,  but  my  mother's  just  a  Thrigsby  'widow'  liv- 
ing in  a  thirty-pound-a-year  house  in  an  ex-genteel 
part  of  the  town.  There  are  lots  of  women  like  her 
in  Thrigsby.  You  live  in  one  of  those  streets  and 
nothing  seems  to  happen.  Then  you  hear  that  the 
lady  at  No.  53  isn't  married  to  her  husband,  or  that 
Mr.  Twemlow  of  25  has  run  away  from  his  wife 
and  four  children.  We  lived  at  49  Axon  Street  when 
my  father  disappeared.  We  live  at  166  Hog  Lane 
West  now.  We've  gone  up  in  the  world  since  my 
brother  began  to  earn  money." 

He  had  talked  himself  into  a  gloom.  The  smoke 
of  Thrigsby  seemed  to  smirch  the  glade. 

"Poor  old  thing!"  said  Cathleen.  "I  don't  see  that 
it  matters  much.  You're  you,  just  the  same.  We 
live  in  a  house  called  Roseneath.  It's  in  Putney,  but 

8 


LOVE  IN  EARNEST 

we  call  it  London.  Father  makes  a  lot  of  money, 
and  is  a  recorder  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  but  we  aren't 
anything  in  particular.  We  turn  up  our  noses  at  a  lot 
of  people,  but  there  are  lots  more  people  who  turn  up 
their  noses  at  us.  You'd  laugh  if  you  could  see  how 
savage  it  makes  Edith  and  Rachel  sometimes  when 
they  grovel  for  invitations  and  don't  get  them.  And 
it  was  wonderful  what  a  difference  it  made  when 
Basil  got  his  blue  at  Cambridge.  All  Putney " 

She  threw  out  her  hands  to  indicate  the  extent  of 
her  brother's  triumph.  Then,  realizing  how  far  their 
talk  had  taken  them  from  the  sweet  employment  which 
was  their  habit,  she  crept  nearer. 

"If  I  thought  all  that  nonsense  was  going  to  upset 
you,  and  hang  about  you  while  we're  waiting,  I'd  run 
away  with  you  to-morrow." 

"Oh,  my  darling!"  cried  he,  overcome  by  this  reck- 
lessness and  proof  of  the  seriousness  of  her  inten- 
tions. They  sat  with  hands  clasped,  gazing  into  each 
other's  eyes  in  a  charmed  happiness. 

"Forever  and  ever,"  said  Rene. 

"Forever  and  ever,"  cried  she.  "It  isn't  many  peo- 
ple who  find  the  real  thing  in  the  first." 

He  glowed. 

"Oh!  we  must  never  spoil  it." 

Then  they  lay  side  by  side  with  the  volume  of  love 
poems  between  them,  and  he  read  aloud  their  fa- 
vorites. 

They  became  very  sorrowful  as  they  realized  that 
the  last  moments  of  their  golden  days  were  running 
out,  and  they  held  each  other  close  in  a  long  shy 

9 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

embrace,  and  they  kissed  each  other  fearfully,  and 
Cathleen  could  not  keep  back  her  tears. 

"You  will  write  to  me?" 

"Oh,  yes,  yes." 

"Good-by,  my  dear,  good-by." 

So  reluctantly,  with  dragging  steps,  they  walked 
out  of  their  glade  and  into  the  path  leading  to  the 
great  house.  At  the  last  turn  they  embraced  again, 
and  parted  quickly  on  a  sudden  crackling  in  the  woods. 
They  saw  nothing,  but  they  walked  on  more  swiftly,  in 
a  silence  more  full  of  fear  than  of  love. 

At  the  garden  gate  they  were  met  by  Mr.  Bentley, 
Cathleen's  father.  To  Rene  he  loomed  very  large,  and 
he  felt  a  sickening  internal  disturbance  as  he  saw 
that  his  presence  was  ignored. 

"I've  been  looking  for  you  everywhere,"  said  Mr. 
Bentley. 

"I've  been  a  walk." 

"Your  mother  wants  you." 

"At  once?" 

"She  wanted  you  an  hour  ago." 

Cathleen  sped  away. 

Disconcertingly  Rene  knew  that  her  father's  whole 
attention  was  concentrated  upon  him,  though  the  law- 
yer's little  cunning  eyes  were  not  looking  at  him. 
They  both  stood  still,  with  the  silence  between  them 
growing  colder  and  colder.  Rene  hotly  imagined  him- 
self saying: 

"Sir,  I  love  your  daughter  and  she  loves  me.  I  am 
poor  but  able.  I  have  won  many  prizes  at  school,  and 
in  the  Faculty  of  Economics  and  Commercial  Science 

10 


LOVE  IN  EARNEST 

in  the  University  of  Thrigsby.  I  am  young,  sir, 
but " 

When  at  last  he  opened  his  lips  he  said: 

"We — we've  been  a  walk." 

"So  I  perceive." 

"The  woods  are  very  beautiful  at  this  time  of  year." 

The  silence  froze. 

"Are  you  staying  long?"  This  came  at  length  in  a 
snappy,  cross-examining  voice. 

"I  go  to-morrow." 

Rene  was  overwhelmed  with  the  grubby  shrunk 
feeling.  It  seemed  so  easy  for  these  people  to  mount 
the  high  horse  of  their  social  superiority. 

"Will  you  kindly  tell  your  aunt  that  we  are  ex- 
pecting her  to  dinner  the  day  after  to-morrow?" 

With  that  Mr.  Bentley  rolled  in  at  the  garden  gate 
(he  was  a  fat  little  man)  and  closed  it,  though  he 
knew  that  Rene's  way  lay  through  the  garden. 

Raging,  the  young  man  walked  the  necessitated  ex- 
tra mile,  infuriated  and  chilled  by  two  questions  :  Had 
Cathleen  removed  the  bracken  from  her  hair?  and 
Was  that  meeting  by  the  gate  accident  or  design  ? 

That  night  he  asked  his  Aunt  Janet  about  his  father. 
She  dodged  his  inquiries,  and  he  could  get  nothing 
from  her  but  this: 

"I  admire  your  mother  more  than  I  can  say.  She 
married  a  bad  Fourmy,  and  that's  as  bad  as  you  can 
get.  Poor,  too.  I  was  glad  when  that  little  money 
came  to  her." 

He  gave  her  Mr.  Bentley's  message,  and  she  said: 

ii 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"You  mustn't  let  their  way  of  living  go  upsetting 
you.  It's  just  money.  You've  got  to  fill  the  gap  be- 
tween you  with  more  than  that." 

"With  what?" 

"You'll  find  that  out." 

Did  she  know  of  his  love?  Was  she  warning  him? 
Did  she  approve?  Did  she  think  him  worthy?  How 
could  people  survive  love  and  become  old  and  dull? 
All  these  and  more  questions  buzzed  about  him  as 
he  lay  in  bed.  He  brushed  them  all  aside  with  the 
cry,  "Oh,  but  I  love  her!"  And,  being  young  and 
full  of  health,  he  was  soon  asleep,  though  a  blank 
tossing  night  would  have  more  pleased  him  and  his 
mood. 


II 

166  HOG  LANE  WEST 
The  homeward  journey  was  by  no  means  so  agreeable. 

EVERY  year  since  he  had  been  a  small  boy,  as  the 
carriage  rounded  the  crag  which  blots  the  lake 
out  of  sight,  Rene  had  been  moved  to  tears.  Happi- 
ness and  brightness  were  left  behind,  and  every  mo- 
ment brought  him  nearer  to  dullness  and  dark  streets 
and  uncomprehending  minds.  And  now,  as  he  rounded 
the  crag,  Cathleen  appeared  on  the  summit,  just  too 
late  to  meet  him  or  to  come  within  earshot.  She  was 
wearing  a  blue  sunbonnet,  and  she  snatched  it  from 
her  head  and  waved  it  until  he  was  out  of  sight.  He 
turned  and  watched  her  and  tears  came,  and  he  could 
hardly  choke  back  his  sobs,  and  hoped  miserably  that 
the  driver  of  his  fly  was  not  aware  of  his  unmanli- 
ness. 

In  the  train  he  tried  to  tell  himself  that  he  was 
taking  back  the  brightness  of  his  love  to  Thrigsby, 
but  as  he  came  nearer,  more  and  more  powerfully  did 
it  seem  to  reach  out  to  crush  his  love.  By  the  time 
he  was  out  in  the  Albert  Station,  he  had  reached  a  de- 
pression not  to  be  broken  even  by  the  excitement  of 
seeing  again  the  familiar  sights,  the  trams,  the  black 

13 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

river,  the  Collegiate  Church,  the  dark  warehouses,  the 
school  where  he  had  spent  so  many  dazed,  busy,  mon- 
otonous years,  the  statue  of  the  Prince  Consort,  the 
yellow  timber-yards  by  the  canal,  the  brilliant  green- 
grocer's shop  at  the  corner  of  Kite  Street,  the  council 
school  where  he  had  begun  his  education,  the  dirty 
brick  streets  among  which  his  whole  youth  had  been 
spent.  Only  some  horrid  disaster  could  have  relieved 
him.  Even  up  to  the  moment  when  the  door  opened 
he  hoped  almost  desperately  to  find  some  difference 
in  his  home. 

The  erratic  servant  came  to  the  door.  She  had  a 
black  smudge  across  her  cheek,  and  her  hair  was 
tousled.  She  gave  him  no  greeting. 

"Oh,  it's  you,"  she  said,  and  as  she  turned  he  saw 
that  one  of  her  shoes  was  split  down  the  heel  and 
had  frayed  her  stocking  into  what  was  known  in 
the  family  as  a  "potato." 

He  heaved  his  bag  into  the  lobby  and  passed  along 
to  the  dining-room,  where  he  found  his  mother.  She 
was,  as  he  knew  she  would  be,  doing  crochet-work. 
He  kissed  her. 

"How  brown  you  are!"  she  said. 

"It's  been  wonderful  weather.  Aunt  Janet  sent  you 
some  shortbread  and  some  knitted  things." 

"I  wish  she  wouldn't.  She  can't  knit,  and  she's  for- 
gotten how  old  you  are,  and  makes  things  as  if  you 
were  still  children.  But  she's  very  good  to  us.  I  don't 
know  what  I  should  have  done  without  her." 

"She  said  she  admired  you  more  than  she  can  say." 

"I've  done  my  best  for  you." 

14 


166  HOG  LANE  WEST 

"She  said  you  married  a  bad  Fourmy." 

"I  wish  she  hadn't  said  that." 

Rene  responded  to  his  mother's  embarrassment,  but 
he  could  not  spare  her. 

"Is  that  true.     Was  my  father  a  bad  man?" 

"He  was  a  gentleman.  The  Fourmys  are  proud, 
clever  people.  They  think  they  are  always  right,  and 
they  want  everything  their  own  way.  That  is  all  very 
well  if  you  have  money.  But,  without  it —  But  why 
talk  of  it?  It's  all  done." 

"Did  you  love  my  father?" 

Mrs.  Fourmy  brought  her  hands  down  into  her  lap 
and  stopped  plying  her  needle. 

"What's  come  to  you,  Rene?" 

He  longed  to  tell  his  mother  that  he  too  loved,  and 
could  therefore  understand,  but  his  question  had  so 
disarmed  her,  her  eyes  looked  so  frightened,  so  ex- 
pectant of  hurt,  that  he  could  not  continue. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "it's  just  queer,  coming  back.  One 
can  feel  all  sorts  of  things  in  the  house,  and " 

"You  are  like  your  father  in  many  ways."  And  she 
resumed  her  crochet. 

That  alarmed  him.  Like  his  father  ?  He  felt  indig- 
nant and  uncomfortably  self-conscious.  He  contrasted 
his  hitherto  exemplary  and  successful  career  with 
those  mean  memories — lying  abed,  whisky  and  cig- 
arettes. He  began  to  protest : 

"But  he- 

"He  was  always  talking  about  feeling  things  the 
same  as  you.  There  was  a  lot  of  good  in  your  father 
though  his  own  people  would  never  admit  it,  and  mine 

15 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

could  never  see  it But  it's  no  good  talking.  It's 

all  done." 

"He  left  you." 

"A  boy  like  you  can't  judge  a  man." 

"Oh,  but  I  know." 

"You  can't  get  anything  for  the  like  of  that  out  of 
books.  There's  some  men  can  stay  with  a  woman  and 
some  can't,  and  which  you'll  be  you'll  know  when  you 
come  to  it." 

Rene  stared  at  his  mother.  She  looked  very  small, 
sitting  there  by  the  empty  fireplace.  She  seemed  to  be 
talking  to  him  from  a  great  distance  away,  from  be- 
yond the  Something  which  he  had  always  felt  to  be  in 
life.  In  the  glade  in  Scotland  he  had  thought  to  have 
surmounted  it,  but  now,  when  he  thought  of  it,  that 
had  already  dwindled  away  and  become  as  small  and 
rounded  as  that  memory  of  his  father  which  had 
haunted  him  in  his  waiting.  Cathleen  seemed  so 
remote  that  he  was  alarmed.  The  foundations  of 
omnipotent  everlasting  love  were  undermined !  Worst 
of  all,  he  knew  that  it  had  become  impossible  to  talk 
of  her.  Not  even  her  image  in  his  mind  could  dwell 
in  that  house.  And  his  mother — his  mother  was  say- 
ing horrible,  worldly  things  in  a  thin,  weary  voice.  In 
fierce  rebellion  his  innocence  rose  up  against  her.  It 
was  impossible  for  him  to  admit  a  fall  from  grace. 
Either  you  loved  or  you  did  not.  If  you  loved,  it  was 
forever.  If  you  did  not,  then  you  were  damned  past 
all  hope;  at  least  you  were,  if  you  were  a  man.  All 
women  were  Dulcineas  to  this  Quixote. 

So  moved  was  he,  so  distressed,  that  he  lost  the 

16 


166  HOG  LANE  WEST 

sequence  of  his  thoughts,  and  they  pursued  their  ca- 
reers in  his  head  regardless  of  his  comfort  or  imme- 
diate needs.  He  was  left  inarticulate. 

"You'll  catch  all  the  flies  in  the  house  in  your  mouth 
if  you  don't  close  it,"  said  his  mother. 

He  snapped  his  teeth  together,  and  said  fiercely : 

"All  the  same,  if  I  treated  a  woman  as  my  father 
treated  you,  I'd  shoot  myself." 

"Absurd  you  are.  A  man  needs  a  fair  conceit  of 
himself  to  do  that.  And  can't  a  woman  learn  to  have 
a  life  of  her  own?" 

"Women •"  began  Rene,  but  his  mother  cut  him 

short  in  a  soothing  voice  that  was  almost  a  caress : 

"Keep  that  for  the  young  ones,  my  dear.  I'm  too 
old  to  be  told  what  women  are  and  are  not,  or  to  care. 
Shall  we  have  the  shortbread  for  tea?  George  is  to 
be  in  with  Elsie." 

"Who's  Elsie?" 

"Didn't  I  tell  you?    George  is  going  to  be  married." 

"George  is?" 

"Yes."  Mrs.  Fourmy  gave  a  chuckle  that  for  so 
tiny  a  woman  was  surprisingly  large.  "Yes,  George 
has  been  almost  as  good  at  falling  in  love  as  you." 

That  bowled  Rene  middle-stump,  and  he  went  out  to 
bring  in  his  bag  and  unpack  the  shortbread  and  the 
Shetland  jacket  he  had  bought  in  Inverness  for  his 
mother. 

She  tried  it  on  and  preened  herself  in  it. 

"Smart  I  am.  You're  a  kind  boy  to  me.  Do  you 
remember  how  you  two  boys  used  to  say  when  you 
were  grown  up  you  would  be  rich  and  take  me  to  my 

17 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

old  home  in  Wiltshire  ?  George  won't,  now  he's  going 
to  be  married." 

"But  I  will,"  said  Rene.  "When  I've  saved  money 
and  can  retire,  we'll  go  and  live  together." 

"I  don't  know.    It's  easy  to  forget  old  women." 

"Oh,  come !    A  man  doesn't  forget  his  mother." 

"Doesn't  he?" 

"And  old?    You're  not  old." 

"I've  been  old  since  before  you  were  born." 

Rene  gazed  down  at  his  mother  and  marveled  at  her 
in  painful  astonishment.  In  her  little  quiet  voice  she 
was  saying  things  that  stabbed  into  him,  or,  hardly 
stabbing,  abraded  and  bruised  him.  And  suddenly  he 
began  almost  to  perceive  that  her  life  was  not  tranquil, 
not  the  smooth  pale  flowing  he  had  imagined  it  to  be. 
He  stared  down  at  her,  and  she  raised  her  eyes  so  that 
they  met  his.  He  dared  not  even  tremble,  so  fearful 
was  he  of  betraying  his  divination  and  her  eyes  flashed 
a  warning,  and  his  mind  seized  triumphantly  upon  its 
first  intellectual  mastery  of  emotion,  and  he  said  to 
himself : 

"There  are  certain  feelings  and  currents  of  sym- 
pathy which  can  only  dwell  in  silence." 

Then  he  laughed: 

"You  must  have  been  pretty  when  you  were  a 
girl." 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Fourmy,  taking  up  her  crochet, 
"my  hair  was  lovely." 

With  that  she  rose  and  busied  herself  with  pre- 
paring tea,  taking  out  the  caddy  in  which  the  party 
brand  was  kept,  and  her  best  table-center  and  the  orna- 

18 


166  HOG  LANE  WEST 

ments  which  were  reserved  for  the  few  elegant  oc- 
casions the  household  could  admit. 

"I  got  a  pair  of  sleeve-links  for  George,"  said  Rene. 
"Silver  and  agate.  When's  he  going  to  be  married? 
They  might  do  for  a  wedding  present  as  well." 

"They  are  going  to  be  married  at  once.  They've 
got  to  be." 

"I  say!"  He  spun  round  on  that.  "I  say.  Need 
you  have  told  me?  When  she's  coming  here  and 
all!" 

But  Mrs.  Fourmy  was  remorseless.  She  said  with 
biting  coldness : 

"When  George  was  a  little  boy,  he  found  out  when 
I  was  married  and  reckoned  up  from  that  to  the  day 
when  he  was  born,  and  he  let  me  know  that  he  knew. 
He  told  you  too." 

"Yes.    He  told  me.    How  did  you  know?" 

"You  looked  at  me  all  one  Sunday  afternoon  with 
your  big  eyes." 

"Oh,  mother!" 

"There  they  are.  George  has  forgotten  the  key. 
Will  you  go  to  the  door  ?  Polly  has  chosen  to-day  to 
clean  the  kitchen  out.  She  would.  She  isn't  fit  to  be 
seen." 

Rene  went  to  the  door. 

"Hullo!  old  man!"— Rene  hated  to  be  called  "old 
man"— "Hullo!  Got  back?" 

"Only  just." 

"This  is  Elsie — Elsie  Sherman.  Mother's  told 
you?" 

Elsie  was  pretty,  as  tall  as  Rene,  and  just  a  shade 

19 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

taller  than  George.    She  took  the  hand  Rene  held  out, 
and  squeezed  it  warmly. 

"So  you're  the  wonderful  brother?" 

"Yes.    The Yes,  I'm  George's  brother.    You 

— you  can  take  your  things  off  in  mother's  room  if 
you  like." 

"Or  mine,"  said  George. 

"Don't  be  silly.  I  couldn't,"  said  Elsie,  with  a  gig- 
gle that  made  Rene  hate  her.  She  ran  upstairs  and 
George  patted  his  brother  on  the  shoulder. 

"Well?  Still  good  enough  for  us?  What  do  you 
think  of  her?" 

"She's  pretty." 

"When  you  know  her  a  bit  you'll  want  to  go  and  do 
likewise,  my  son." 

Standing  there  huddled  with  his  brother  in  the  nar- 
row lobby  that  seemed  all  coats  and  umbrellas,  Rene 
remembered  with  a  horrible  vividness  his  brother  com- 
ing to  his  bed  and  telling  him  how  his  father  and 
mother  were  married  on  such  a  day  and  how,  five 
months  later,  he,  George,  was  born.  And  he  remem- 
bered how  he  burst  into  tears,  and  when  George 
asked  him  what  he  was  howling  for,  he  had  said: 
"They  didn't  want  you,"  a  view  of  the  matter  to  which 
George  had  remained  insensible.  He  saw  now  that 
the  revelation  had  broken  the  young  intimacy  that 
had  always  been  between  them.  He  said: 

"Mother's  got  out  her  best  center  for  you." 

"Good  old  mother!"  replied  George.  Then  he 
raised  his  voice  and  bawled : 

"Elsie!" 

20 


166  HOG  LANE  WEST 

"Coming!" 

She  came  running  downstairs.  George  caught  and 
kissed  her,  and  as  they  went  along  the  passage  Rene 
wondered  how  it  could  be  possible  for  one  extra  per- 
son to  make  the  house  seem  overfull. 

It  was  certainly  a  party.  Mrs.  Fourmy  set  the  note, 
a  ceremonious  expansiveness  in  opening  up  the  family 
to  its  new  member.  Rene's  achievements  were 
paraded,  and  the  letter  written  by  his  headmaster, 
which  had  finally  decided  the  family  that  he  was  too 
good  for  commerce,  was  produced  and  read  aloud. 
George's  virtues  as  a  son  were  extolled  and  punctu- 
ated with  his  protest: 

"I  say,  mother,  draw  it  mild." 

And  Elsie's  rather  too  fervent: 

"Of  course  I  know  I'm  very  lucky." 

They  played  bridge  and  Rene  lost  fourpence,  be- 
cause he  played  with  his  mother,  who  never  could  re- 
member to  suit  her  declarations  to  her  score,  or  to 
return  her  partner's  lead,  and  had  no  other  notion  of 
play  than  to  make  her  aces  while  she  could. 

Elsie  talked  of  her  family,  especially  of  a  rich 
uncle  she  had  who  kept  a  timber  yard  and  of  a  cousin 
who  was  a  Wesleyan  minister.  Of  her  own  immedi- 
ate relations  she  spoke  affectionately  but  little.  Alto- 
gether she  was  so  anxious  to  please  that  Rene  forgot 
his  first  distasteful  impression  and  set  himself  to  make 
her  laugh.  She  was  grateful  to  him  for  that.  The 
evening  would  not  have  been  a  success  for  her  with- 
out abundant  laughter,  and  George's  jokes  were  just 
a  little  heavy.  Also  she  seemed  to  be  slightly  afraid 

21 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

of  him,  as  though  in  all  her  responses  to  him  were  a 
small  risk,  rather  more,  at  any  rate,  than  she  could 
always  venture  to  take.  She  warmed  to  Rene,  there- 
fore, and  between  them  they  kept  things  lively. 

In  a  silence  while  George  was  dealing — for  he  took 
his  bridge  very  seriously — Rene  hummed  a  bar  or 
two  of  a  piece  called  Blumenlied,  which  he  had 
been  taught  to  play  as  a  boy  when  he  worked  off  the 
set  of  music  lessons  George  had  begun  and  relin- 
quished. 

"Oh,  Blumenlied!"  cried  Elsie;  "I  adore  that,"  and 
she  took  up  the  air. 

"You've  got  a  pretty  voice,"  said  Rene. 

"Have  I?    I  do  sing  sometimes." 

"Sings?"  said  George.  "I  should  think  so.  The 
family's  a  concert  party.  Everything  from  the  human 
voice  to  a  piccolo." 

They  finished  the  rubber  and  adjourned  to  the  par- 
lor, where  Mrs.  Fourmy  drew  sweet  buzzing  notes 
from  the  little  old  piano  that  seemed  to  have  come  into 
the  world  at  the  same  time  as  herself  and  to  have 
shared  her  experience.  She  knew  all  its  tricks  and 
could  dodge  its  defects,  and  when  she  played  faded 
songs  that  had  had  their  day,  and  Elsie  sang  them, 
Rene  was  melted  into  a  mood  of  loving  kindness  and 
was  full  of  gratitude  to  the  two  women,  and  wished 
only  for  their  happiness — an  eternity  of  such  happi- 
ness as  they  were  giving  him  now. 

He  kissed  Elsie  when  she  said  good-by.  She  lived 
only  a  few  streets  away,  and  George  asked  him  to  sit 
up  for  him.  When  the  couple  were  gone : 

22 


166  HOG  LANE  WEST 

"Well?"  said  Mrs.  Fourmy,  more  to  the  fireplace 
than  to  her  son. 

"She's  too  good  for  George."  Rene  thought  with 
dislike  of  his  brother,  sitting  with  his  eyes  half-closed, 
taking  a  too  voluptuous  delight  in  the  music  and  show- 
ing a  too  proprietary  pride  in  the  singer. 

"She  suits  him,"  rejoined  his  mother.  "George 
wants  to  settle  down.  So  does  she.  Most  people  are 
like  that.  They  settle  down,  and  they  think  nothing 
else  can  happen  to  them.  You're  not  like  that." 

"I  don't  know.     To  settle  down " 

"Love  songs.  You  think  it's  all  love  songs.  They 
think  it's  all  love  songs,  or  they  try  to.  Warm  and 
comfortable.  Oh,  but  I've  seen  it  too  often." 

"Why  do  you  keep  hinting  at  things,  mother?" 

"I  wasn't  hinting.  I  know,  and  you  will  know,  and 
they  never  will.  I  could  have  screamed  sometimes  to- 
night." 

"I  thought  you  liked  her." 

"Like?  Oh,  Rene,  boy,  if  only  you'd  grow  up  and 
be  some  use  to  me!" 

"I  want  to  be." 

"I  know  that,  and  it's  something." 

"Are  you  hurt  because  they ?" 

"I've  been  a  foolish  woman.  I've  been  seeing  more 
hope  for  George  than  there  ever  was." 

She  took  up  the  box  of  matches  from  the  chimney- 
piece  and  stood  fingering  it.  He  hoped  she  would  say 
more,  but  nothing  came.  The  disconcerting  sense  of 
the  otherness  of  his  mother's  world  played  about  him, 
and  he  felt  helpless  and  rather  fatuous. 

23 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"Bed's  the  best  place  for  me,"  she  said.  "You  don't 
know  how  I've  been  dreading  this  evening.  And  it's 
gone  off  very  well,  very  well.  Good  night,  my  dear. 
I'm  glad  you  came  home  to-day." 

She  astonished  him  by  kissing  him  on  both  cheeks, 
for  ordinarily  she  held  up  her  face  and  he  stooped  and 
pecked  at  it.  To-night  there  was  a  kind  of  suspension 
of  the  habits  of  the  household. 

He  heard  her  go  upstairs,  and  with  surprising  celer- 
ity get  into  bed.  Then  he  sat  alone  waiting  in  the 
dim,  jaded  dining-room,  with  the  enormous  table  de- 
signed for  a  hospitality  which  was  never  given,  and 
the  corner  cupboard  which  had  been  in  all  the  houses 
the  family  had  inhabited,  and  the  hanging  smoker's 
cabinet  over  the  mantelpiece  which  was  used  as  a  med- 
icine chest,  and  the  absurd  knick-knacks  his  father  had 
collected,  and  the  plaques  his  father  had  painted  with 
apples  and  cherry-blossom  and  bulrushes.  There  was 
so  much  in  the  room  that  spoke  of  his  father.  The 
whisky  and  the  boxes  of  cigarettes  used  to  be  kept  in 
the  corner  cupboard.  On  the  table  he  had  helped  his 
father  to  make  the  screen  out  of  old  Christmas  num- 
bers and  colored  plates  of  the  Graphic  and  Illustrated 
London  News,  which  had  given  him  employment  dur- 
ing the  whole  of  one  winter.  And  he  was  stirred  by 
the  memory  of  the  emotions  that  must  have  been 
behind  his  mother's  strange  incoherence,  and  he  told 
himself  that  she  had  suffered,  and  that  his  father  was 
to  blame  for  it  all  and  could  meet  with  no  fate  too 
harsh. 

George  returned,  whistling. 

24 


166  HOG  LANE  WEST 

"I  wanted  to  talk  to  you,"  he  said. 

"Anything  you  like,"  replied  Rene. 

"You  won't  mind  my  putting  it  bluntly?" 

"No." 

"Well,  you  see  how  it  is.  I've  got  a  rise,  but  Elsie 
hasn't  a  stiver,  and  we  shall  only  have  enough  to  pull 
through  on.  My  money  goes  out  of  this  house. 
You've  had  a  soft  time  up  to  now;  you  can't  go  on. 
If  you  want  to  stay  in  the  house  you'll  have  to  buckle 
to  and  earn  some  money,  or  move  to  another,  or  lodg- 
ings; but  even  in  the  cheapest  lodgings  it  would  be 
a  squeeze  with  mother's  little  bit." 

"I  see.     But  I've  got  another  year." 

"Can't  you  teach  someone  something  ?  You've  been 
learning  long  enough." 

"I  might.  I  see  I  must  do  something.  When  are 
you  going  to  be  married?" 

"Next  month.     What  are  you  staring  at?" 

"Was  I  staring?" 

"When  you  were  a  kid  I  used  to  hit  you  for  staring 
at  me  like  that,  and,  by  God,  I'd  like  to  do  it  now. 
Elsie  said,  she  said:  'Your  brother's  got  all  his  feel- 
ings just  under  his  skin.'  Why  don't  you  say  some- 
thing?" 

George  rose,  went  to  the  corner  cupboard  and  took 
out  a  bottle  of  whisky.  The  gesture,  the  lift  of  the 
shoulder,  the  cock  of  the  back  of  the  head,  reminded 
Rene  irresistibly  of  his  father.  George  turned. 

"Why  can't  you  stop  staring?  I'm  going  to  be  mar- 
ried. I'm  no  different.  There's  nothing  very  startling 
in  that,  is  there?" 

25 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"The  whole  thing  seems  to  me  so " 

He  stopped,  staring  more  wildly.  The  word  he  sup- 
pressed was  greedy,  and  it  was  most  painfully  ex- 
planatory. 

"So  what?" 

"I  mean — I  liked  her.     She  seems  a  good  sort." 

"No  nonsense  about  Elsie." 

"Doesn't  it  make  you  understand  mother  more?" 

"Mother?  She's  a  queer  little  devil.  Didn't  speak 
to  me  for  a  fortnight  after  I  told  her,  and  she  took  to 
going  to  church  again.  She's  a  rum  'un,  is  mother.  I 
believe  she'd  do  anything  if  it  wasn't  she's  so  darned 
fond  of  you." 

"Oh,  you  think  it's  me?" 

"If  it  wasn't  for  you  she'd  have  chucked  the  whole 
thing  long  ago  and  gone  right  off  into  a  convent  or 
something.  She  doesn't  like  the  money  part  of  it 
being  put  off  on  to  you.  Really,  I  don't  think  she 
minded  anything  else.  She  knows  what  life  is,  mother 
does." 

"How  will  you  live?" 

"Oh,  a  snug  little  house.  Her  father'll  give  us  fur- 
niture. He's  an  old  sport,  he  is.  Keeps  the  Den- 
mark, you  know,  in  Upper  Kite  Street.  'Normous 
family.  Delighted  when  the  girls  go  off.  Elsie 
worked  in  a  shop.  No  more  work  for  Elsie." 

"You're  pleased  with  yourself,  then?" 

"I'm  going  to  be  married;  that's  good  enough  for 
any  man.  Married  and  settled  down.  That's  life." 

"Is  it?"  Rene  found  George  entirely  absurd,  and 
he  laughed. 

26 


166  HOG  LANE  WEST 

X 

"Oh,  well,"  he  added,  "mother  and  I  will  find  a  way. 
Good  night." 

"Good  night,"  replied  George.  "Go  and  dream  of 
your  books  and  your  swells.  My  Elsie'll  beat  all  their 
women.  I  know  those  swell  ladies.  Good  night." 

Upstairs,  in  his  little  room,  Rene  took  pen,  ink,  and 
paper,  and  wrote  to  Cathleen : 

"This  house  is  exactly  like  thirty-one  other  houses. 
Parlor,  kitchen,  dining-room,  three  bedrooms  above 
them.  That's  all.  And  they  are  all  full  of  grubby  lit- 
tle lives  and  the  material  things  they  don't  express 
themselves  in.  Do  you  see  what  I  mean?  Coming 
straight  from  you,  from  our  woods,  from  the  tall 
bracken  and  the  heather,  I  feel  trapped.  What  I  miss, 
I  think,  is  graciousness.  Oh,  yes!  That  is  the  word. 
All  the  charming  ways  you  have.  The  easy  courtesies 
with  which  you  smooth  over  any  roughnesses,  any  lack 
of  sympathy,  so  that,  even  among  uncongenial  peo- 
ple, silence  is  not  devastating.  And  between  you  and 
me  silence  can  be  so  beautiful,  so  full  of  something 
more  melodious  than  sound.  But  here,  if  there  is 
silence,  little  uglinesses  creep  out  of  dark  corners  and 
fill  it.  They  do  not  seem  to  know  the  difference  be- 
tween silence  and  emptiness.  My  mother  has  al- 
most frightened  me.  I  can't  tell  you.  Something 
terrible  and  yet  silly  has  happened.  I  don't  under- 
stand. Some  things  hurt  my  feelings  so  that  I  can 
never  understand  them.  But  my  mother  was  won- 
derful all  the  same,  and  different,  so  different  that 
I  was  not  at  all  surprised  at  her.  I  suppose  I  knew  it 

27 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

all  along.  She  has  suffered  as  women  must  not,  must 
not,  must  not  suffer,  as  I  will  never  let  you  suffer.  I 
cannot  write  love  words  to  you.  I  can  only  tell  you 
that  I  am  building  up  my  life  toward  you.  I  have 
changed.  It  all  seems  enormously  serious  suddenly. 
A  lot  that  we  have  had  seems  silly.  I  want  to  ex- 
plain to  you.  It  is  terrible  that  I  can't  see  you  again 
for  a  whole  year,  terrible,  terrible.  But  I  love  you. 
I  have  begun  to  see  what  love  is,  what  a  man  can 
be  to  a  woman  if  he  does  not  drag  her  down  to  his 
own  level.  Lovers,  I  think,  should  have  something 
wonderful,  something  that  should  illuminate  every- 
thing so  that  even  the  darkest  places  and  happenings 
are  bearable.  Oh,  you  see  what  I  mean.  I  am  trying 
to  bring  it  all,  what  I  feel,  to  you.  You  must  under- 
stand. This  year  is  different  from  last,  more  serious, 
more  beautiful.  Think  what  it  will  be  when  we  are 
ready  to  be  together.  When  I  think  of  it  I  am  almost 
afraid.  No  one  is  ever  ready  for  that,  so  holy  is  love. 
Holy!  Holy!  Holy!  A  little  boy's  voice  in  a  church 
singing  that  expresses  it  as  nothing  else  can.  I  have 
to  begin  to  earn  my  living." 

He  had  got  so  far  with  his  pen  racing  along  in  the 
wake  of  his  thoughts  when  his  mother  knocked  at  his 
door: 

"Do  go  to  bed,  Rene,  dear.  You're  not  working 
already  ?" 

"No,  mother.     I  wasn't  working." 

"Then  you  mustn't  stay  up,  wasting  the  gas  and 
all." 


Ill 

GEORGE  MARRIED 

Tis  an  evil  lot,  and  yet 

Let  us  make  the  best  of  it; 

If  love  can  live  when  pleasure  dies 

We  two  will  love,  till  in  our  eyes 

This    heart's    Hell    seem   paradise. 

GEORGE  married  and  settled  in  the  newly  de- 
veloped region  behind  Hog  Lane  West.  Before 
he  went,  he  spent  a  whole  evening  with  his  mother 
and  brother  making  a  list  of  his  possessions,  and  ar- 
guing with  them  when  they  claimed  a  chair  or  a  piece 
of  china  he  had  bought  as  family  property.  They  had 
been  purchased  with  his  money,  and  they  had  only  en- 
joyed a  right  of  user. — (His  firm  had  been  through 
protracted  litigation  in  the  Chancery  Courts,  and  he 
was  up  in  legal  phrases.) — They  must  have  known 
that  sooner  or  later  he  would  have  a  house  of  his 
own.  The  procuring  of  a  wife  seemed  to  have  ag- 
gravated George's  acquisitive  sense.  He  was  exceed- 
ingly conscious  of  the  extension  of  his  personality 
and  was  groping  round  for  material  things  wherewith 
to  fortify  it.  More  and  more  he  treated  his  brother 
with  condescension,  and  was  continually  hinting  at  the 

29 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

things  marriage  did  for  a  man.  He  had  not  been  so 
grossly  jubilant  since  his  first  encounter  with  woman, 
whereof  he  had  given  Rene  a  full  and  rapturous  ac- 
count. Rene  had  been  more  able  to  understand  that 
excitement  than  this.  To  George  the  two  adventures 
were  apparently  of  the  same  order ;  to  Rene  they  were 
profoundly  different,  and  his  brother's  boisterousness 
induced  misery  in  him.  What  his  mother  made  of  it 
all,  he  could  not  discover.  All  day  long,  and  often 
late  at  night  she  was  crocheting  at  a  bed-quilt  which 
she  was  anxious  to  have  finished  against  the  wedding. 
The  savage  communicativeness  which  had  so  disturbed 
Rene  on  the  night  of  his  home-coming  was  succeeded 
by  silence  and  silly  chatter,  and  she  was  constantly 
and  mysteriously  busy  at  George's  house  or  with  El- 
sie at  the  shops. 

Cathleen  Bentley  had  written: 

"How  can  you  have  such  a  brother?  But  he  is 
great  fun.  Tell  me  more.  And  I  adore  your  mother. 
If  only  we  could  be  engaged,  I  would  come  and  stay 
with  you." 

Rene  described: 

"George  keeps  hinting  at  Things  in  marriage.  He 
is  rather  like  a  man  dreaming  of  good  food,  a  series 
of  meals  magically  prepared  and  set  before  him  so  that 
he  does  not  need  to  rise.  One  meal  is  cleared  away 
and  another  appears.  I  find  it  hard  to  grasp.  I  im- 
agine his  life  otherwise  must  be  dull,  though  he  never 
seems  to  mind  that.  He  is  what  you  call  Steady ;  has 
been  in  the  same  office  since  he  was  sixteen,  and  will 
go  on  in  it  until  he  is  sixty  and  past  work.  Perhaps 

30 


GEORGE  MARRIED 

all  his  desire  and  hope  go  into  this  adventure.  Per- 
haps he  feels  that  nothing  lies  beyond  it,  and  is  there- 
fore cramming  everything  into  it.  Certainly  he  is  not 
allowing  himself  room  to  develop  anything  out  of 
it.  There's  a  sort  of  desperation  in  him.  Now  or 
never.  After  all,  I  suppose  he's  getting  what  he 
wants,  but  there  is  a  heat  in  it  which  blisters  me.  That 
must  be  because  I  have  known  a  cool,  sweet  love 
with  you.  How  did  it  happen?  You  must  try  to 
understand,  look  down  into  the  lives  of  people  on  a 
lower  level  than  your  own.  We  have  no  organized 
pleasures,  at  least  not  enough  of  them,  and  we  are 
really  thrown  back  on  the  man  and  maiden  business, 
casual  for  the  most  part.  We  feel  the  grubbiness  of 
it,  but  they  don't.  It's  fire  and  warmth  to  them. 
Primitive,  isn't  it?  Like  savages  rubbing  two  sticks 
together.  It  doesn't  leave  much  room  for  affection  or 
charm.  It  has  to  be  raw  or  they  can't  believe  in  it,  in- 
articulate as  they  are,  and  as  I  am  too  often.  We  can't 
make  material  existence  a  starting-point  as  you  more 
favored  ones  can  do  if  you  choose.  Love  simply 
doesn't  have  a  chance  with  us.  I  think  you  could 
bring  a  wonderful  happiness  into  my  mother's  life.  I 
keep  wanting  to  tell  her  about  you,  and  one  of  these 
days  I  shall.  Will  you  send  her  some  flowers  from 
your  garden?  We  have  a  backyard  only  with  five 
privet  bushes  growing  round  an  old  bicycle  shed. .  .  ." 
Writing  to  Cathleen  was  his  safety-valve.  He  could 
find  George  amusing  when  he  had  written  to  her,  and 
when  he  had  a  letter  from  her  he  could  almost  sa- 
lute his  brother  as  a  fellow-lover. 


YOUXG  EARNEST 

The  wedding  was  a  noble  piece  of  work.  It  was  at 
St.  Clement's  in  Upper  Kite  Street,  not  a  hundred 
yards  away  from  the  Denmark,  where  there  was  a 
rousing  breakfast  to  which  Mr.  Sherman  had  invited 
his  cronies  and  patrons.  There  were  ponderous  jokes 
about  perambulators,  and  George,  in  an  excited  little 
speech,  said  that  when  he  had  a  house  large  enough 
to  accommodate  all  his  family,  he  would  be  able  to 
invite  those  friends  who  had  come  to  see  him  and 
his  Elsie  married.  Two  or  three  old  women  wept; 
rice,  confetti,  and  slippers  were  thrown  after  the 
happy  pair  as  they  drove  off  for  their  honeymoon,  and 
in  the  afternoon  the  party  went  by  train  to  Cheadley 
Edge  and  visited  the  caves,  and  wandered  in  the 
woods,  and  ate  an  enormous  high  tea  at  Yarker's,  the 
farmhouse  which  devoted  one  of  its  meadows  to  co- 
coanut-shies  and  roundabouts,  and  its  garden  to  tea- 
parties.  It  was  all  good,  vulgar,  noisy  fun,  and  Rene 
was  caught  in  a  series  of  flirtations  with  Elsie's  sisters 
and  their  friends.  He  kept  finding  their  hands  in  his 
as  they  swung  or  walked  or  sat  at  tea,  and  they  seemed 
to  enter  into  a  competition  to  be  isolated  with  him 
in  the  woods  or  the  caves,  but  not  one  of  them  es- 
tablished an  exclusive  right  to  him  for  the  day,  and 
by  the  return  in  the  evening  the  party  was  split  up  into 
couples  and  he  found  himself  thrown  with  his  mother, 
who  had  throughout  shown  a  stiff  front  to  pleasantries 
and  was  exhausted  by  jollifications  which  for  her  had 
not  been  jolly. 

Sitting  by  her  side  in  the  tram  as  they  drove  from 
the  station,  Rene  found  himself  dreading  the  return  to 

32 


GEORGE  MARRIED 

Hog  Lane  West.  George  had  been  an  alien,  but  a 
convenient  buffer  between  them.  Now  they  had  to 
establish  a  new  order  of  living.  George's  absence  was 
an  actuality  with  which  they  had  to  deal  more  vigor- 
ously than  with  his  presence.  They  left  his  room 
empty.  Neither  had  any  use  for  it.  The  dining-room 
had  been  the  living-room  of  the  family.  Without 
George,  Rene  and  his  mother  found  themselves  re- 
lapsing into  oppressive  silences,  and  very  soon  he  took 
to  leaving  her  in  the  evenings,  and  going  up  to  his 
bedroom  and  his  books  and  his  work. 

He  was  singularly  friendless.  His  schoolmates  had 
gone  into  offices  and  regarded  with  strange  and  rather 
alarmed  eyes  his  continued  pursuit  of  academic 
courses,  and  in  his  first  years  at  the  university  he  had 
undergone  a  violent  spasm  of  mental  growth  which 
had  left  him  shy  and  diffident,  resentful  of  anything 
that  seemed  like  intrusion  upon  his  brooding,  and  im- 
patient of  surface  relationships  and  the  too  easy 
friendliness  which  he  saw  current  on  all  sides.  Also 
he  was  chafed  by  his  position  of  semi-dependence  upon 
his  relations,  and  rather  scared  by  the  possibility  of 
not  doing  well  enough  in  his  examinations  to  justify 
what  was  constantly  being  impressed  upon  him  as  his 
exceptional  opportunity.  Therefore  he  worked  on  a 
time-table  in  term  and  out  of  it,  never  less  than  nine 
hours  a  day;  morning,  afternoon,  and  evening;  and 
rather  harder  in  vacation  than  in  term.  He  had  no 
smallest  notion  what  it  was  all  for.  He  had  an  un- 
usual faculty  for  learning  things  and  arrangements 
of  ideas,  and  could  always  answer  examination  ques- 

33 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

tions  lucidly,  and  had  so  small  a  conceit  of  himself 
that  his  work  was  never  spoiled  by  a  nervous  anxiety 
to  excel  nor  interfered  with  by  the  emotionalism  of 
the  clever  young.  He  had  a  sound,  all-round  ability, 
never  expected  anything  to  be  difficult,  and  could 
quickly  master  the  elements  of  any  study  he  took  up. 
When  that  study  led  away  from  practical  considera- 
tions he  was  apt  to  lose  interest  in  it.  He  had  stopped 
short  of  philosophy  and  pure  mathematics,  and  the 
astuteness  of  his  headmaster  had  led  him  in  his  last 
year  at  school  to  specialize  in  history  and  economics. 
When  he  was  sent  up  for  a  scholarship  at  Cambridge, 
he  failed  because  the  beauty  of  the  Backs  had  so 
stirred  his  rather  sluggish  emotions  as  to  cause  him 
temporarily  to  lose  his  lucidity  and  shrewdness  in 
dealing  with  examination  questions,  so  that  he  wrote 
rather  at  large — thoroughly  enjoying  himself — than 
with  particular  reference  to  the  matter  in  hand.  How- 
ever, he  had  already  won  a  County  Council  Scholar- 
ship, and  with  this  he  entered  Thrigsby  University. 
There  he  had  done  well  and  had  picked  up  exhibi- 
tions and  bursaries,  striving  for  success  not  so  much 
because  he  wanted  it,  as  because  it  was  expected  of 
him. 

He  lived  now  in  a  strange  disquietude,  reading  his 
set  books,  Adam  Smith,  Malthus,  Ricardo,  Marshall, 
Cannan,  Jevons,  various  works  by  Sidney  and  Beatrice 
Webb,  amusing  himself  with  the  advanced  diagram- 
matic economists,  and  grinding  away  at  his  special 
subject,  Cooperation,  from  the  Rochdale  pioneers  to 
the  European  "movement."  All  this  he  did  mechani- 

34 


GEORGE  MARRIED 

cally.  His  brain  had  been  set  going  in  a  certain  di- 
rection by  amiable  instructors  whom  he  had  never  seen 
any  reason  to  doubt,  and  it  was  pleasant  to  let  it  go 
on  so  moving  toward  that  examination  which  was  to 
be  a  gate  leading  to  a  profession  higher  than  the  life 
of  commerce  from  which  he  had  been  reclaimed. 

So  far,  so  good;  but  George's  marriage  had  caused 
a  stir-about  in  him.  In  the  first  place,  it  posed  a  do- 
mestic problem  in  economics  that  could  not  be  solved 
on  paper,  and  in  the  second  it  had  roused  him  to  moral 
revolt.  He  could  not  forget  his  affection  for  George. 
They  had  been  great  companions  as  little  boys.  He 
himself  was  in  love,  knew  that  love  was  sweet,  and 
could  not  away  with  the  fact  that  George's  marriage 
was  to  some  extent  a  denial  of  all  he  had  learned  and 
gained  in  his  own  hours  of  tenderness.  He  hated  to 
resist  the  idea  that  George  was  perfectly  happy,  but 
he  could  not  help  himself.  His  was  no  literary  en- 
thusiasm for  romance  and  noble  love.  He  had  read 
very  few  romances,  and  of  poetry  he  knew  no  more 
than  the  anthology  to  which  Cathleen  had  introduced 
him.  On  the  whole,  he  preferred  comfort  above  all 
things,  and  George  made  him  uncomfortable,  set  stir- 
ring in  him  an  idealism,  a  fervor,  which  so  swelled  in 
him  as  to  make  him,  even  in  his  outpourings  to  his 
beloved,  incapable  of  stringing  his  ideas  together. 
Literary  persons  can  gain  a  great  deal  of  relief  by 
the  mere  reiteration  of  the  words  "I  love  you,"  with 
variations.  Words  were  to  Rene  only  implements, 
painfully  inadequate,  for  digging  out  the  fineness 
which  he  had  begun  to  perceive  behind  his  feelings. 

35 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

He  could  not  forgive  George  for  being  content  with 
mere  feelings  undisciplined  and  unrefined.  He  hoped 
innocently  that  the  honeymoon  would  bring  some  reve- 
lation, but  when  bride  and  bridegroom  returned  they 
were  more  distressing  than  ever.  They  had  lost  their 
shyness.  That  was  all.  George  was  fatly,  compla- 
cently "settled  down,"  and  could  never  leave  his  wife 
alone  for  half  an  hour  on  end,  but  must  be  always 
touching  her,  teasing  her,  or  openly  caressing  her,  and 
she  seemed  to  like  it  and  to  make  a  parade  of  his  at- 
tentions. 

Rene  would  come  away  boiling  from  an  evening 
spent  at  their  house,  which  they  had  called  The  Nest, 
and  he  would  sit,  either  cooling  himself  with  his  large 
books,  or  heightening  his  fury  with  letters  to  Cath- 
leen,  now  returned  to  Putney,  which  is  called  London. 
He  never  revised  what  he  wrote.  He  had  rather  for- 
gotten the  charm  of  his  boyish  love-making,  and  had 
lost  the  young  trick  of  visualizing  his  fair,  needing 
more  from  her  than  her  beauty,  and  now  used  her  as 
an  outlet,  assuming  in  her  a  sympathy  which  neither 
her  past  conduct  nor  her  letters  revealed.  The  mere 
fact  of  writing  was  enough,  and  his  letters  became  in- 
timate and  self -revelatory,  a  kind  of  running,  general 
confession.  Sometimes  they  were  of  enormous  length, 
and  the  envelopes  he  sent  away  were  bulky  and  bulg- 
ing. 

One  night  he  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a  letter, 
turned  back  and  read,  realizing  that  he  had  laid  bare 
the  whole  of  his  brother's  sexual  life  so  far  as  he  knew 
it.  He  was  filled  with  a  thick  horror,  tore  the  letter 

36 


GEORGE  MARRIED 

up,  and  went  down  to  his  mother  to  escape  from  the 
train  of  thought  which  had  led  to  such  indiscretion 
and  betrayal.  He  did  not  escape,  but  found  himself 
plunged  in  confession: 

"Mother,  I'm  in  love." 

"Well,  I  never!  You're  not  going  to  be  married 
now?" 

"No.  It's  hopeless.  She's  rich.  At  least  her  father 
is." 

"So  that's  why  you  look  so  queerly  at  Elsie.  You 
can't  expect  them  to  be  all  alike." 

"It  isn't  only  that.  Only  I  can't  get  away  from 
certain  things." 

"What  things?" 

"The  horrible  things  people  do." 

"You'll  be  kept  busy  if  you  worry  about  that." 

"It's  about  myself." 

"Want  to  confess?    Go  on." 

"I  mean,  George  and  I  used  to  talk — you  know. 
Well,  it  got  beyond  talk.  Uncle  Alfred  gave  me  ten 
shillings  once.  I  spent  it — that  way." 

"Well,  well." 

"You  can't  dismiss  it  like  that.  I  shouldn't  be  re- 
membering it  if  it  were  so  easy  as  that.  I  met  her — 
you  know — in  Derby  Street " 

"You're  not  going  to  tell  me  the  whole  story?" 

"I  must  tell  someone.  I  met  her  and  she  took  me 
down  a  lot  of  streets.  She  walked  along  briskly  in  a 
business-like  way,  and  I  slunk  along  behind  with  my 
coat  collar  turned  up  and  my  cap  over  my  eyes,  and  I 
kept  shivering,  though  it  wasn't  cold.  We  came  to  a 

37 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

little  house  and  she  knocked  at  the  door,  and  a  fat 
woman  with  red  arms  came  to  it.  She  just  looked  at 
us  and  said:  'Full  up.'  We  went  on  to  another  little 
house,  but  I  couldn't  get  that  out  of  my  mind,  and  the 
room  there  was  so  horrible  that  I  ran  away,  and  that's 
all." 

Mrs.  Fourmy  looked  up  at  the  clock,  into  the  fire, 
round  at  the  corner  cupboard.  At  last  she  said : 

"Well,  you  are  a  funny  boy." 

"I'm  in  love  all  right,"  he  said;  "but  I  fed  as  if 
I'd  never  like  to  marry  and  just  go  on  with  you  for- 
ever and  ever.  I  could  find  a  sort  of  happiness  in  just 
making  enough  for  us  to  live  on." 

His  mother  came  over  to  him  and  laid  her  hands  on 
his  shoulders : 

"Don't  make  trouble  for  yourself,  my  dear.  Don't 
do  that.  Let  things  alone.  Trouble  comes  fast 
enough,  and  all  your  plans  and  thoughts  and  hopes 
aren't  enough  to  deal  with  them.  That's  your  father 
all  over.  Always  wanting  a  little  better  than  he  got, 
and  always  getting  a  little  worse  than  he  deserved. 
Suppose  we  go  out  together  once  a  week.  That'll  stop 
us  getting  into  the  way  of  sitting  too  much  alone. 
And  if  the  girl's  the  right  sort  of  girl  she  won't  let 
being  rich  and  all  that  stand  in  her  way." 

Rene  patted  her  hand. 

"It's  awfully  good  of  you  to  listen,"  he  said;  "I 
feel  better  already.  Only  George " 

"Don't  let  George  worry  you.  He  can  do  things 
you  can't.  George  can  keep  his  mind  out  of  things 
like  that." 

38 


GEORGE  MARRIED 

He  felt  immensely  relieved.  His  confession  seemed 
to  have  filled  the  vacancy  left  by  George.  Between 
himself  and  his  mother  there  was  established  a  more 
living  relationship.  There  had  been  some  authority 
in  her  comfortable  words  which  had  led  him  back  to 
the  old  unconsidered  position  in  which  she  was  the 
central  warmth  of  the  home  in  which  he  lived.  For 
a  time  at  least  he  could  be  at  rest  and  accept  that  things 
were  so  because  they  were  so  and  not  otherwise. 

Gradually  they  won  back  to  happy  insignificant 
chatter,  and  planned  that  on  the  following  evening 
they  would  go  to  a  music-hall  together. 

The  postman  broke  in  upon  their  talk.  He  brought 
two  letters  for  Rene.  One  was  from  Cathleen,  and 
very  short: 

"There's  been  a  row.  I've  been  howling  all  night.  I  can't 
write  any  more.  They  can't  understand.  Vulgar  they  call 
you,  and  they  are  furious  with  me.  They  read  one  of  your 
letters,  opened  it  if  you  please.  Not  fit  for  a  young  girl. 
I'm  not  to  have  a  heart  till  I  can  captivate  a  rich  man  old 
or  young,  and  I  am  never  to  have  a  mind.  It's  just  beastly 
the  things  they  say,  but  I  can  do  nothing." 

The  other  letter  was  from  her  mother : 

"DEAR  SIR, — I  have  read  your  last  letter  to  my  daughter. 
It  is  not  fit  reading  for  a  young  girl,  or  indeed  for  any  pure 
woman.  You  will  oblige  me  by  not  writing  again,  and  I 
have  forbidden  my  daughter  to  continue  your  acquain- 
tance." 

He  passed  both  letters  over  to  his  mother. 
"I  told  you  it  was  hopeless." 

39 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"If  you  ask  my  opinion,"  replied  his  mother,  "I 
should  say  you  were  well  rid  of  her." 

"But  I  can't  help  loving  her." 

Mrs.  Fourmy  sniffed  indignantly: 

"Love!    Well,  you  can  call  it  love  if  you  like." 

"I  do,"  said  he  very  earnestly. 

On  which  his  mother  staggered  him  by  saying: 

"George  wouldn't." 

In  spite  of  himself,  and  against  the  grain,  Rene  be- 
gan to  think  a  little  enviously  of  his  brother,  master 
unperplexed  of  his  own  and  another  life. 


IV 

A  RETURN 

Why,  among  us  a  drowning  man  has  to  make  for  himself 
the  very  straw  he's  to  clutch  at ! 

BOTH  Rene  and  his  mother  were  excited  all  day 
over  their  projected  visit  to  a  music-hall. 
Thrigsby  had  ten  of  these  places  of  amusement,  and 
they  found  it  hard  to  decide  which  to  patronize.  Only 
%one  was  outside  the  possibility  of  choice,  because  it 
had  performing  seals  in  the  bill,  and  Mrs.  Fourmy 
could  not  bear  to  see  animals  on  the  stage.  Rene  was 
for  the  low  comedians,  his  mother  for  music;  and  at 
last,  in  the  program  of  one  of  the  suburban  halls,  she 
found  a  musical  turn  which  had  once  given  her  im- 
mense pleasure.  She  talked  of  it  all  afternoon,  adding 
all  the  time  so  generously  to  its  wonder  that  Rene  be- 
gan to  fear  she  would  be  disappointed  with  the  actual- 
ity. But  her  anticipation  was  so  firm  as  to  overbear 
any  shortcomings  in  the  performance,  and  she  saw  and 
heard  only  what  she  expected  to  see  and  hear.  For 
Rene  there  was  a  very  droll  comedian  who  made  him 
shout  with  laughter.  Mrs.  Fourmy  was  shocked  at  a 
joke  at  the  expense  of  the  Deity  and  those  who  go  to 
heaven,  but  she  was  so  delighted  with  her  son's  pleas- 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

ure  that  she  swallowed  her  distaste  and  laughed  too. 
All  the  way  home  they  recapitulated  their  moments 
of  delight,  and  laughed  and  melted  in  remembrance. 

It  was  a  lovely  evening,  and  they  walked  through  a 
residential  park,  the  roads  of  which  were  private  and 
flanked  and  overhung  with  trees.  Lovers  lurked  in  the 
shadows,  and  their  sweet  murmuring  could  be  heard. 
Mrs.  Fourmy  took  her  son's  arm : 

"You  and  an  old  woman  like  me." 

"Won't  it  be  lovely  when  we  live  in  the  country, 
mother?" 

"Oh,  but  there  won't  be  any  music-halls." 

"We  won't  need  them  in  the  country  with  the 
nights.  You  should  have  seen  them  in  Scotland.  I 
used  to  go  into  the  woods,  and  sometimes  up  the  hills." 

"But  with  an  old,  old  woman " 

"I  won't  let  you  be  really  old,  mother.  And  up 
there  I  used  to  feel  that  I  didn't  really  want  anybody. 
That's  queer,  because  I  was  in  love — really,  I  was." 

He  began  to  tingle  and  burn  at  the  thought  of  Cath- 
leen  and  the  absurd  end  of  his  hopes,  and  almost  tear- 
fully to  realize  that  he  was  not  yet  out  of  love.  That 
discomfort  gave  him  a  sense  of  gladness  in  his 
mother's  company.  It  was  wonderful  the  sweetness 
that  had  come  into  their  life  together,  the  peace  of  it 
and  the  hope. 

He  said: 

"It  won't  be  long  before  I  can  begin  to  make  some 
money.  I'm  only  waiting  for  Professor  Smallman 
to  come  back.  His  letter  was  awfully  kind.  He  says 
there  will  be  no  difficulty.  I  can  get  first-year  pupils, 

42 


A  RETURN 

and  he  can  help  me  to  find  some  journalistic  work. 
Then  when  I've  got  my  degree  I'll  get  a  post,  and  you 
won't  have  to  take  any  more  money  from  the  rich 
Fourmys." 

"It's  only  what  helps  you  now.  You  don't  seem  to 
be  a  bit  ambitious,  Rene." 

"Would  you  like  me  to  be?" 

"But  you're  so  clever  and  everybody  else  is  so 
stupid.  It  seems  so  funny  of  you  to  be  so  pleased 
with  anything  you  can  get." 

"Funny?"  He  could  hardly  grasp  what  she  meant. 
She  went  on : 

"You're  so  good-looking,  too.  I  shouldn't  be  sur- 
prised if  you  got  on  and  married  somebody  who  was 
— well,  you  know." 

There  was  a  strain  of  bitterness  in  his  mother  which 
could  infuriate  him.  To-night  he  was  so  happy  with 
her  that  it  made  him  only  sad,  and  he  said  gently : 

"I  don't  think  I'm  the  sort  that  gets  on.  I  say 
things — in  letters,  you  know." 

"But  I'd  like  to  see  you  well  off  and  married  to  some 
really  nice  girl." 

"And  I'd  like  to  see  the  girl  who  could  make  me 
give  up  the  idea  of  living  in  the  country  with  you." 

"I'll  come  and  stay  with  you." 

So  they  went  on  gently  sparring,  both  clinging  to 
their  separate  idylls  of  the  future.  They  came  out 
of  the  park  into  the  streets  of  little  shops  and  small 
houses  like  their  own,  and  stopped  presently  at  the 
German  delicatessen  store,  where  they  argued  as  to 
what  they  should  have  for  supper,  ham  or  liver  sau- 

43 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

sage.  They  compromised,  and  decided  on  both,  with 
little  Swiss  cheeses  and  honey-cakes. 

As  they  came  out  into  Hog  Lane  West  they  were 
accosted  by  a  man  who  asked  Rene  if  he  could  tell  him 
where  Hog  Lane  West  was,  and  which  way  he  should 
turn  to  find  166. 

"That's  my  house,"  said  Rene. 

The  stranger  moved  closer  to  him  and  had  a  long 
look  at  him.  Rene  felt  a  tug  at  his  arm,  and  turned 
to  find  his  mother  trembling  against  him. 

"Rene!  Rene!  it's  your  father!" 

"Is  it  you,  Essie?"  said  the  stranger,  and  he  re- 
moved his  hat. 

"You — you I'm  afraid,"  said  Rene  chokingly, 

"I'm  afraid  you'll  find  the  door  shut  against  you. 
I've — I've  often  thought  what  I  should  do  if  I  set 
eyes  on  you  again.  That's  what  I  shall  do.  I  can't  let 
you  come." 

"Essie,"  the  stranger  turned  to  Mrs.  Fourmy,  "I'm 
dead  broke." 

"You  must  come  and  tell  us,  but  you  mustn't  stay. 
We've  been  out,  Rene  and  I.  We've  got  supper." 

Her  voice  thinned  away.  She  could  speak  no  more. 
Her  hand  pressed  Rene  to  move  on,  and  they  set  out 
toward  their  house  with  the  man  following.  Rene  held 
the  garden  gate  open,  and  stayed  for  a  moment  fum- 
bling for  his  key.  When  he  found  it,  his  father  and 
mother  were  standing  silhouetted  against  the  glass 
panel  of  the  door.  He  let  them  in,  and,  obeying  an 
obscure  instinct  that  stirred  in  him,  went  upstairs  to 
leave  them  alone  together.  Not  for  long.  He  found 

44 


A  RETURN 

that  in  his  confusion  he  had  taken  the  viands  with 
him.  He  gained  a  few  moments  in  the  kitchen  pre- 
paring a  tray  (Polly  was  out  for  the  evening  and 
not  yet  returned),  and  then,  with  the  dishes  clatter- 
ing as  he  walked,  he  rejoined  them  in  the  dining-room. 

He  had  not  consciously  expected  anything,  but  as 
he  entered  the  dining-room  he  saw  his  father  with  his 
back  turned  to  him  at  the  corner  cupboard  with  his 
hand  on  the  key,  his  head  cocked,  his  shoulders  up, 
very  like  George,  and  it  was  as  though  he  had  fore- 
seen it.  It  was  uncanny  and  his  heart  ached  in  a  sort 
of  dread. 

His  mother's  face  was  shining  with  a  glowing  ex- 
citement, and  she  looked  away  from  him  as  she  said : 

"Your  father  wants  us  to  let  him  stay  for  a  little. 
There's  George's  room,  you  know,  and  I  want  him  to." 

Rene  felt  helpless.  The  emergency  was  too  strong 
for  him. 

"All  right,"  he  said. 

His  father  turned  and  smiled  pleasantly. 

"That's  good  of  you — very  good  of  you.  I'd  be  in 

the  cart  without.  I'm — well — I've  been But  we'll 

talk  of  that  later." 

"Talk!"  murmured  Rene,  aghast.  "Who  would 
talk?  Who  could  find  anything  to  say?"  Miserably 
he  laid  out  the  plates  round  the  big  hospitable  table, 
so  big,  so  hospitable,  that  it  was  out  of  place  and  for- 
bidding. 

Mr.  Fourmy  had  already  helped  himself  to  whisky. 
(George  always  kept  a  bottle  in  the  house  in  case  he 
and  Elsie  should  drop  in  of  an  evening. )  They  drew 

45 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

up  to  the  table  and  went  through  a  mockery  of  eat- 
ing. The  bread  was  bitter  in  Rene's  mouth,  and  the 
dainties  they  had  bought  were  tasteless.  Mrs.  Fourmy 
talked  in  a  toneless  twittering  voice  of  the  music-hall 
performance,  while  Rene  stole  glances  at  his  father 
and  avoided  meeting  his  eyes.  If  he  met  his  eyes  he 
felt,  in  spite  of  himself,  amused,  charmed,  tickled, 
somehow  pleased,  and  with  that  pleasure  was  mixed  a 
salt  savor  of  pity,  so  that  it  was  irresistible  and  led 
on  wonderfully  to  a  sure  promise  of  adventure.  Rene 
kept  muttering  to  himself:  "He's  a  bad  man.  A  bad 
Fourmy,  and  you  can't  do  worse  than  that."  This 
memory  he  flung  with  a  look  at  his  mother,  only  to 
realize  as  he  looked  that  she  had  no  thought  for  him, 
but,  like  him,  was  stealing  glances  at  his  father  and 
avoiding  meeting  the  little  keen  humorous  eyes.  And 
his  father  went  on  eating  hungrily  and  heartily.  Half 
a  loaf  of  bread  he  ate,  and  two-thirds  of  the  ham  and 
all  the  liver  sausage.  Then  he  looked  wistfully  at 
the  honey-cakes,  but  desisted,  produced  a  packet  of 
cigarettes,  and  began  to  smoke. 

"That's  good,"  he  said.  "My  first  square  meal  since 
this  morning.  That's  good,  good." 

He  moved  from  the  table  into  the  big  red  velvet 
chair  by  the  fire. 

"Good,  very  good.  And  it's  a  real  home-coming. 
After  all,  this  isn't  so  very  different  from  the  old 
house." 

"It's  bigger,"  said  Rene. 

His  father  turned  and  scanned  him. 

"I  can  hardly  realize  you  yet,  young  man.  Can't 

46 


A  RETURN 

allow  for  your  growing  up.  Can  only  just  trace  the 
face  I  remember.  Your  nose  has  grown." 

"You  used  to  have  a  mustache." 

"Yes.  Shaved  it  off  in  America.  Didn't  like  Roose- 
velt." 

"Have  you  been  to  America?" 

"Been  the  devil's  own  dance,  up  and  down  America, 
North  and  South,  Philippines,  Malay  Settlement— 
that's  Rangoon — China,  back  to  America.  Wonder- 
ful how  you  meet  Thrigsby  folk  all  over  the  world. 
Hundreds  of  young  men  everywhere  who  seem  to  have 
been  at  school  with  you  and  George.  I've  had  enough. 
Want  to  settle  down." 

"Like  George." 

"Isn't  George  coming  in?" 

"He's  married." 

"The  devil  he  is !  And  am  I  a  grandfather?  Lord ! 
what  a  world  it  is  for  breeding!  Think  of  me  just 
fifty  and  a  grandfather.  What  things  do  happen  to  a 
man,  to  be  sure." 

"If  only  you  wouldn't  talk,"  protested  Rene  in  a 
sudden  exasperation. 

"To  be  sure,"  returned  his  father  genially.  "I'm  the 
prodigal.  Must  give  you  time  to  take  me  in  while  we 
digest  the  fatted  calf." 

"It's  not  that!"  Rene  was  swept  by  his  indignation 
on  to  his  feet.  "It  isn't  that!  Only  I  never  thought 
of  this.  You  come  in,  and  you  sit  there  in  your  old 
chair  as  though  you'd  only  gone  out  yesterday.  And 
it's  over  ten  years,  and  I  can  hardly  remember  you, 
and  I  know  all  the  time  that  you're  my  father,  and 

47 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

— and — I  don't  know  you.  It's  simply  beastly.  I  don't 
know  why  it  is,  but  it  is." 

"Rene!  Rene!"  cried  his  mother. 

"Steady,  old  girl,"  said  Mr.  Fourmy,  with  an  al- 
most tender  firmness.  He  turned  quietly  round  in  his 
chair  until  he  was  looking  sideways  up  at  Rene.  "Look 
here,  young  man,  it  takes  two  to  make  a  scene,  and 
I  won't  have  it.  It's  no  good  trying  to  make  a  scene 
simply  because  you  expected  to  have  one  if  ever  I 
came  back.  I  spanked  you  the  day  before  I  left  for 
throwing  a  knife  at  your  brother  in  one  of  your  bare- 
sark fits,  and  for  two  pins  I'd  turn  you  up  and  spank 
you  now." 

Then  Rene's  memory  played  him  a  scurvy  trick. 
"Boot  or  brush?"  he  asked  himself,  and  a  sick  anger 
rose  in  him  and  hot  tears  welled  into  his  eyes.  He 
gasped  and  gurgled  inarticulately,  thinking  he  was 
making  an  appeal  to  his  mother,  but  through  his  tears 
he  seemed  to  see  his  father  growing  larger  and  larger, 
and  in  a  gust  of  terror  he  lunged  out  of  the  room, 
seized  his  cap,  and  rushed  from  the  house. 

"It  isn't  fair!  it  isn't  fair!"  he  moaned. 

Other  young  men  he  knew  had  difficulties  with  their 
fathers,  but  to  have  a  father  suddenly  materialize  out 
of  thin  air  and  step  back  with  exasperating  ease  into 
a  relationship  which  a  part  of  his  family  at  least  had 
forgotten,  was  too  critical  for  the  mind  to  bear.  Rene 
had  been  priding  himself  on  the  fact  that  at  last  he 
was  to  be  as  other  young  men,  a  wage-earner,  a  reput- 
able citizen,  a  prop  to  his  mother,  a  credit  to  his  fam- 
ily and  his  own  aspirations.  And  here  suddenly  he 

48 


A  RETURN 

was  to  begin  all  over  again.  His  painful  emotions 
were  akin  to  those  of  a  small  boy  on  the  arrival  of 
a  new  baby  in  his  home,  or  to  those  of  a  tit  on  find- 
ing a  cuckoo's  monstrous  egg  in  its  nest,  and,  being  of 
a  cultivated  intelligence,  he  could  not  immediately 
and  robustly  draw  on  his  instinct  to  adjust  himself 
to  the  new  circumstances. 

He  called  on  George.  The  Nest  was  in  darkness. 
He  went  on  hammering  at  the  door  until  the  window 
above  it  was  thrown  open. 

"Who's  there?"  snarled  George.  "If  it's  the  police, 
the  window's  left  open  for  the  cat,  and  I'm  damned  if 
I  shut  it." 

"It's  me— Rene!" 

"What  the  hell  do  you  want  at  this  time  of  night?" 

"I  must  see  you.     Something  has  happened." 

"What?" 

"Come  down  and  let  me  in." 

He  was  filled  with  a  cold  and  shuddering  feeling  of 
being  ridiculous  as  he  waited.  He  wanted  to  run 
away,  but  that  would  have  been  even  more  absurd. 
The  chain  of  the  door  rattled,  the  bolts  rapped  back, 
and  George  said: 

"Come  in.  You've  wakened  Elsie,  and  she's  not  at 
all  well." 

"But  I  wanted  to  see  you.    Father's  come  back." 

"What?" 

"Father's  come  back." 

"Mother  all  right?" 

"She  seems  quite  pleased." 

"Then  there's  nothing  more  to  be  said.     If  you 

49 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

don't  like  him,  tell  him  he's  got  to  pay  the  rent.  That'll 
clear  him  out  fast  enough.  Good  night." 

George  seized  Rene  by  the  arm,  lifted  him  through 
the  door  on  to  the  step,  closed  the  door,  shot  the  bolts 
and  the  chain.  In  his  astonishment  Rene  found  him- 
self nearly  back  at  166  before  he  could  realize  the  out- 
rage that  had  been  done  to  his  feelings.  He  had 
wanted  to  tell  George  that  the  atmosphere  of  the  house 
was  just  horrible,  and  George  had  never  thought  of 
that. 

166  was  in  darkness  too.  How  grim  these  little 
houses  were  in  the  darkness  t  How  they  invited  vio- 
lence and  the  wickedness  of  the  night!  How  derelict 
they  seemed!  How  fit  for  the  harboring  of  wander- 
ing, evil  men !  Now  he  thought  of  his  father  as  evil, 
a  shadow  come  to  obliterate  the  brightness  that  had 
grown  and  filled  the  house  since  George's  departure. 

He  let  himself  in,  saw  that  all  the  lights  were  out 
downstairs,  the  large  coals  taken  from  the  dining- 
room  fire,  the  windows  and  doors  fastened.  Then  he 
crept  upstairs  on  tiptoe  in  his  stockinged  feet  and 
groped  fearfully  toward  his  mother's  door,  half 
dreading  some  awful  discovery.  He  could  hear  no 
sound.  As  he  passed  George's  room  there  came  out 
of  it  his  father's  rich,  familiar  snore. 


SETTLING    DOWN 

O  the  mad  days  that  I  have  spent !  and  to  see  how  many 
of  mine  old  acquaintances  are  dead ! 

PROFESSOR  SMALLMAN  had  been  lent  by  his 
university  to  deliver  a  series  of  lectures  in  Amer- 
ica, and  some  weeks  of  the  term  would  pass  before 
his  return.  Rene,  therefore,  had  no  escape  from  his 
father.  Breakfast,  dinner,  tea,  and  supper,  he  was 
there  all  the  time  on  his  best  behavior,  though  with 
a  naughty  malice  stirring  in  him  and  peeping  out  of 
his  eyes.  He  ate — how  he  ate!  Hardly  a  meal  left 
remnants  enough  to  provide  for  the  next,  and 
butcher's  meat,  which  before  had  only  been  got  every 
third  day,  was  now  brought  to  the  house  every  morn- 
ing. In  an  access  of  filial  devotion,  Rene  had  under- 
taken to  relieve  his  mother  of  household  accounts,  al- 
ways a  plague  to  her,  and  the  little  blood-stained 
butcher's  bills  alarmed  him  by  their  number  and  the 
amount  of  money  they  represented.  He  hardly  spoke 
to  his  father,  avoided  him,  shut  himself  up  in  his 
bedroom,  and  there  realized  horribly  that  he  was  also 
avoiding  his  mother,  that  she  made  no  protest,  not 
even  by  glance  or  gesture,  and  that  they  were  mak- 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

ing  him  feel  the  intruder.  The  change  in  his  mother 
was  amazing.  She  was  three  times  as  active,  and  was 
often  for  hours  together  without  her  crochet-work. 
She,  who  was  accustomed  for  days  never  to  leave  the 
house,  now  went  out  every  afternoon  with  her  hus- 
band to  walk  in  Potter's  Park,  or  in  the  evening  to 
visit  the  streets  where  they  had  lived,  and  to  seek 
out  old  acquaintances.  When  her  son  was  present  she 
was  discreet,  and  prattled  reminiscently  of  people  he 
had  never  known,  or  remembered  only  as  names  and 
remote  presences.  But  often  when  he  was  in  his 
room,  he  would  hear  them  below  talking  excitedly, 
and  his  mother  laughing  or  protesting.  And  he  came 
to  think  of  them  as  "they,"  and  they  seemed  to  have 
so  little  they  cared  to  or  could  share  with  him. 

One  black  night  he  had  when,  after  coming  in  late 
in  the  afternoon,  he  found  his  mother  unaided  moving 
the  heavy  iron  bedstead  and  wire  mattress  from 
George's  room  to  her  own.  He  gulped  down  his  dis- 
may, and  stood  on  the  stairs  watching  her.  She  had 
not  heard  him,  and  went  on  until  suddenly  she  caught 
sight  of  him  and  jumped. 

"Oh!" 

"Shall  I  help  you?" 

"It  is — too  heavy  for  me." 

"Where  is— he?" 

"He  went  out.  He  thought  he  saw  old  Mr.  Timper- 
ley  in  Derby  Street  to-day.  Of  course  you  don't  re- 
member Mr.  Timperley." 

"In  your  room?" 

She  hesitated: 

52 


SETTLING  DOWN 

"We — we  sold  the  old  bed,  you  know." 

He  helped  her  without  another  word.  Together  in 
silence  they  put  George's  bed  up  alongside  her  own, 
and  in  silence  when  it  was  done  Rene  left  her.  He 
went  to  his  room  and  sat,  staring  unseeing  at  the  five 
privet  bushes  and  the  old  bicycle  shed. 

Presently  she  came  to  him  and  sat  on  his  bed,  and 
gazed  at  him  like  a  mournful,  shy  little  bird. 

"You  mustn't  make  it  hard  for  us,  Rene." 

"I — I  thought  I  was  making  it  easy." 

"His  brothers  won't  see  him." 

"Why  not?" 

"They  won't.  They're  hard  people,  the  Fourmys. 
They  can't  forget  the  past.  They  say  they  won't  help 
me  any  more  if  I  let  him  stay,  and  not  a  penny  will 
they  leave  me." 

"You'll  let  him  stay?" 

"He  knows  it  was  cruel  of  him  to  leave  as — as  he 
did.  But  he  had  a  lot  to  bear,  really  he  did,  Rene. 
He  was  very  proud.  It's  his  pride  has  been  against 
him  always,  Rene." 

"What  did  he  do  else?" 

"Nothing  very  much.  Only  people  talked.  And 
he  didn't  get  on.  That  was  his  pride  too.  You  can 
do  anything  if  only  you  get  on.  He  never  could  work 
for  other  people.  He  was  a  clever  man  too.  You 
get  your  cleverness  from  him.  I'm  sure  it's  not  from 
me.  He  was  always  trying  different  things,  but  he 
couldn't  get  on.  He  did  some  silly  things  too." 

"You  won't  tell  me,  then?" 

"I  have  told  you." 

53 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"What's  he  going  to  do?  Go  on  eating  and  eat- 
ing?" 

"He'll  look  for  work.  Of  course,  at  his  age,  it 
won't  be  easy." 

"What's  he  been  doing  all  this  time  ?" 

"He's  been  rich  and  lost  it  all  again.  He  came  back 
to  England  with  quite  a  lot  of  money." 

"He  didn't  think  of  you  then." 

"He  lost  it  nearly  all.  Do  be  nice  to  him,  Rene! 
He  thinks  such  a  lot  of  you.  George  is  quite  nice,  and 
Elsie  loves  him  already,  but  he  thinks  most  of 
you.  I've  been  telling  him  how  wonderful  you've 
been,  and  he  says  nothing  must  interfere  with  your 
career." 

"But  someone  must  make  money." 

"Only  for  a  little.  He  says  we  could  make  much 
more  with  my  money  if  it  were  re-invested." 

Rene  swung  round. 

"He's  not  to  touch  that,  do  you  hear?  You're  a 
soft  fool,  mother.  He's  not  to  touch  that.  I'll  work 
myself  to  the  bone  first." 

"That's  dear  of  you,  Rene.  And  you  will  be  nice 
to  him,  won't  you?" 

"All  right,  all  right." 

She  kissed  him  and  flitted  away,  and  presently,  to 
the  devastation  of  his  attempts  to  adopt  what  he  con- 
sidered a  worldly  and  wise  point  of  view  of  the  mat- 
ter, he  heard  her  singing  in  her  room.  A  loathing  and 
disgust  rushed  through  him.  Men  and  women !  Men 
and  women!  It  was  George  all  over  again,  quintes- 
sence of  George,  here  on  the  very  fringes  of  his  being. 

54 


SETTLING  DOWN 

No  escape  from  it!     In  the  little  house,  all  but  the 
tiniest  noises  could  be  heard  from  end  to  end  of  it. 

His  father  came  home  late  that  night.  He  hummed 
as  he  groped  upstairs  and  fumbled  his  way  along  the 
passage  to  the  front  room.  The  full  hours  of  the 
night  in  towns,  where  huddled  creatures  live,  poured  in 
upon  Rene  as  he  lay  in  sleeplessness,  staring,  staring 
at  the  never-darkened  sky. 

From  this  torment  to  escape  he  could  find  no  other 
solace  than  the  attempt  to  be  "nice"  to  his  father.  It 
was  forced  on  him,  and  after  the  first  plunge  he  found 
it  not  so  very  difficult,  and  there  was  some  reward  in 
his  mother's  anxious  satisfaction.  Both  men  played 
up  to  keep  things  lively  for  the  woman,  and  the  elder 
set  himself  almost  desperately  to  make  the  younger 
laugh.  At  first  when  they  were  alone  together  Mr. 
Fourmy  made  the  mistake  of  trying  droll  stories 
spiced  and  hot  on  his  son,  but  he  was  met  with  a  stare 
so  blank  and  uncomprehending,  so  freezing,  that  he 
never  tried  them  again.  Then,  more  successfully,  he 
drew  on  his  own  reminiscences,  and  practiced  his  not 
inconsiderable  talent  for  caricature  and  exaggerated 
mimicry  upon  the  odd  characters  he  had  known  and 
the  members  of  his  own  family.  This  met  with  en- 
couragement from  Rene,  who  was  interested.  From 
his  father's  chuckling  monologue  he  learned  that  the 
Fourmys  were  the  oddest  family  that  ever  was — 
Scotch,  French,  Dutch,  Jewish,  reg'lar  English,  in 
fact;  Nonconformist  for  generations;  clever,  close, 
proud,  hard,  acquisitive,  narrow,  pious,  with  occa- 
sional outcrops  of  wickedness  to  leaven  the  lump; 

55 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

•shy,  harsh,  undemonstrative;  loathing  any  kind  of 
excess;  clinging  to  the  middle  way,  bound  never  to 
rise  above  respectable  mediocrity;  dreading  anything 
so  conspicuous  as  eminence;  never  reaching  to  any 
higher  public  office  than  a  District  Council  or  a  Board 
of  Guardians. 

"Two  of  my  brothers  are  Guardians,"  said  Mr. 
Fourmy,  "and  they  could  predict  no  worse  for  me 
than  that  I  should  come  to  the  workhouse.  They  know 
well  enough  that  no  Fourmy  could  ever  get  to  prison. 
We  can't  be  bad  enough." 

"Where  did  we  come  from?"  asked  Rene. 
"Scotland,  but  that's  a  long  time  ago.    Your  great- 
aunt  Janet's  father  started  a  tannery  somewhere  near 
Lancaster.    That  would  be  somewhere  about  the  time 
of   Napoleon.     At  least,   I   remember  reading  a  lit- 
tle book  the  old  gentleman  wrote  about  a  tour  he 
made  in  France  and  Germany  when  the  Continent  was 
opened  up  after  Elba  and  all  that." 
"But  why  are  we  fixed  here?" 
"Don't  your  big  books  tell  you  that?" 
For  once  in  a  way  Rene  saw  that  his  father  was 
twitting  him. 

"Big  books  don't  account  for  humble  folk  like  us." 
"The  biggest  books  do,  my  boy."     And  to  Rene's 
surprise  and  delight  his  father  raised  his  voice  and 
trolled  out  some  verses  that  excited  and  exalted  him. 
They  were  all  about  joy  and  freedom  and  the  awful- 
ness  of  losing  them,  but  no  single  phrase  bit  into  his 
mind  to  take  possession  of  it. 
"Yes,"  he  said,  "yes." 

56 


SETTLING  DOWN 

"Pooh!"  said  his  father.  "If  we  understood  that 
we'd  none  of  us  be  here,  neither  rich  nor  poor.  We 
get  a  little  excited  about  it,  at  least  you  and  I  do,  but 
we  can't  go  any  further — not  far  enough  into  our  own 
minds,  I  mean — and  we  are  left  weaker  for  the  attack 
of  all  the  things  that  drag  us  down  and  bind  us  fast. 
A  little  squeeze  for  bread  and  butter,  and  we  say  it 
doesn't  matter,  but  may  come  all  in  good  time.  I  used 
to  be  rather  good  at  poetry,  could  remember  anything 
I  read  or  heard.  Can't  do  that  now.  I  used  to  love 
it.  The  Fourmys  hate  it.  Lord!  when  I  had  my  last 
row  with  my  father,  when  he  had  said  his  say,  I  let 
fly  at  him  with  a  page  and  a  half  of  Milton  and  wound 
up  with  Shakespeare — you  know:  'Let  me  not  to  the 
marriage  of  true  minds ' ' 

"I  know,"  said  Rene,  though  he  had  never  read  the 
Sonnets. 

"Lord!  I  was  a  young  man,  I  was,  and  I  went  on 
being  young  for  a  surprisingly  long  time.  It  seemed 
there  wasn't  anything  in  the  world  could  take  it  from 
me.  But  it  came  to  an  end  at  last.  How  you  do  make 
me  talk,  to  be  sure !  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  about  your- 
self." 

That  shut  Rene  up  completely.  There  was  nothing 
to  tell,  nothing  that  would  not  dwindle  and  shrivel  up 
in  the  telling.  There  was  such  mockery  in  this  dis- 
turbing father  of  his  that  his  timid  little  emotions,  his 
shy  desire  to  think  well  of  him,  to  like  him,  to  set  what 
he  found  in  him  against  what  he  knew  and  had  heard, 
hid  away,  curled  up  in  his  mind  and  created  a  horrid 
congestion.  But  his  father  had  a  certain  fascination 

57 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

for  him,  and  it  was  a  relief  to  get  him  to  talk.  He 
never  did  learn  why  the  Fourmys,  rich  and  poor,  were 
fixed  where  they  were  in  the  middle-class  of  Thrigsby, 
but  he  did  get  flashes  and  sparks  which  promised 
elucidation,  and  he  did  begin  to  discover  that  there 
were  worlds  on  worlds  outside,  and  minds  which  were 
not  afraid  of  thought  and  not  wholly  set  on  money 
and  the  good  opinion  of  others.  It  was  a  painful  mys- 
tery to  him  that  his  father's  mind  should  lead  him  on 
so  far,  give  him  a  shining  promise  of  beauty — though 
beauty  was  the  very  last  word  that  in  his  shyness  of 
himself  he  would  have  used — and  then  by  a  cruel 
sleight  of  hand  present  him  only  with  caricatures  of 
Fourmys  and  neighbors  and  George. 

Mr.  Fourmy  on  his  elder  son  is  worth  quoting.  He 
said: 

"George  is  a  reg'lar  Fourmy,  a  thorough  Unitarian. 
They  want  one  God.  George  desires  to  live  in  the 
worship  of  the  one  flesh." 

He  seemed  to  like  George,  was  often  at  The  Nest, 
and  when  George  and  Elsie  came  to  them  there  was 
tapped  in  the  queer  man  a  vein  of  ribaldry  which 
made  Rene,  even  as  he  laughed,  blush  that  such  things 
could  be  said  before  a  woman. 

George  said  of  his  father: 

"He's  a  funny  damned  old  rotter,  but  you  can't  help 
liking  him." 

Rene  had  to  admit  that,  but  the  increase  in  the 
weekly  bills  gave  him  many  a  sick  moment,  and  though 
his  father  spent  many  hours  away  from  home,  there 
was  never  any  talk  of  his  finding  work.  Very  quickly 

58 


SETTLING  DOWN 

the  household  absorbed  its  new  inmate  and  adjusted 
its  habits,  so  far  as  was  necessary,  to  his.  Mr.  Fourmy 
bought  paints  and  brushes,  and  with  these  he  would 
amuse  himself  all  day.  At  half-past  eight  in  the  even- 
ing he  would  disappear,  and  often  not  return  until 
the  small  hours  of  the  morning.  He  never  asked 
for  money,  and  seemed  always  able  to  procure  any- 
thing he  wanted. 


VI 

PROFESSOR  SMALLMAN 

As  the  reader's  curiosity  (if  he  hath  any)  must  be  now 
awake,  and  hungry,  we  shall  provide  to  feed  it  as  fast  as 
we  can. 

EXCEPT  for  Mrs.  Fourmy  few  letters  came  to 
1 66,  and  it  was  a  great  excitement  for  Rene 
when,  a  few  weeks  before  the  end  of  term,  he  came 
down  in  the  morning  to  find  a  parcel  waiting  for  him 
on  the  breakfast  table.  His  father  and  mother 
watched  him  eagerly  as  he  opened  it,  to  find  two  large 
brown  volumes,  a  German  economic  treatise  translated 
by  a  Scots  professor.  A  printed  slip  headed  Thrigsby 
Post  requested  Mr.  Fourmy  to  send  a  review  not  ex- 
ceeding four  hundred  words  in  length  within  a  week. 
Pride  and  elation  moved  Rene.  His  cheeks  glowed, 
his  eyes  shone,  he  caressed  the  covers  of  the  books, 
took  them  up,  and  turned  over  the  leaves.  It  was  the 
first  sign  of  recognition  from  the  world  outside  school 
and  university. 

"Professor  Smallman  said  he  would  get  me  some 
reviewing."  Rene  could  only  speak  in  gasps.  He 
could  not  take  his  eyes  off  the  books,  and  when  his 
father  reached  out  his  hand  for  them,  his  impulse  was 
to  hug  them  and  keep  them  from  him.  "He  said  he 

60 


PROFESSOR  SMALLMAN 

thought  he  could  get  me  some.  But  I  never  thought 
of  the  Post.  It's  such  a  good  paper." 

"It's  Liberal,  isn't  it?"  asked  Mrs.  Fourmy. 

"Yes.  But  of  course  I  shouldn't  have  anything  to 
do  with  that  side  of  it."  Rene  had  always  been  given 
to  understand  that  he  was  a  Conservative,  and  that 
only  chapel  people  were  Liberals. 

He  ate  very  little  breakfast,  and  immediately  after- 
ward rushed  upstairs,  made  his  bed,  and  lay  on  it 
gloating  over  the  precious  books,  picking  up  first  one 
volume  and  then  the  other,  hardly  reading  them,  and 
beginning  already  to  compose  his  review  based  on 
Professor  Smallman's  dislike  of  the  translator.  Then 
he  began  to  wonder  how  much  he  would  be  paid  for 
it — one,  two,  four,  five  guineas.  The  editor  of  the 
Post  was  a  very  rich  man.  Would  they  print  his 
name  ?  Presently  his  happiness  was  so  intense  that  he 
could  not  bear  not  to  share  it,  and  he  went  downstairs. 
His  mother  had  gone  out.  His  father  was  in  the  din- 
ing-room painting.  He  had  the  lid  of  a  cigar  box 
and  was  covering  it  with  a  copy  of  a  nude  reproduced 
in  some  magazine  from  a  picture  in  the  Paris  Salon 
of  that  year.  Rene  watched  him.  He  worked  with 
minute  strokes  of  the  brush,  caressingly,  carefully. 
Already  he  had  painted  several  copies  of  the  same  pic- 
ture. 

"Why  do  you  always  paint  the  same  thing?"  asked 
Rene. 

"Nothing  else  worth  painting."  Mr.  Fourmy 
stopped,  looked  up  at  his  son,  winked,  and  hissed  like 
a  goose  in  a  peculiar  mocking  laughter  he  affected 

61 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

when  he  was  most  roguish.  "She's  a  beauty,  this  one. 
Like  to  have  seen  the  original.  Women.  Not  much 
else  men  care  about,  as  you'll  find  presently.  I  can 
sell  as  many  of  these  as  I  care  to  paint.  I'm  going 
to  do  her  smaller  though,  so's  she  can  be  carried  in  the 
waistcoat  pocket  or  a  letter-case.  I've  got  a  watch- 
maker's glass,  so's  I  can  see  what  I'm  doing  with  the 
brush."  And  he  took  out  the  glass  and  screwed  it 
into  his  eye  and  looked  chuckling  up  at  Rene.  He  was 
absurdly,  childishly  pleased  with  himself. 

"Does  mother  know?"  asked  Rene,  all  his  elation 
oozing  away. 

"She  don't  know  I  sell  'em.  I  didn't  know  I  could 
myself.  Never  saw  what's  been  under  my  nose  all  my 
life.  But  he's  a  clever  man,  is  your  father,  much  too 
clever  to  be  a  burden  on  his  wife  and  family.  Knock 
him  down  one  day  and  he's  up  the  next." 

Rene  said  heavily: 

"It's  like  the  shops  in  the  Derby  Road  where  they 
sell  the  photographs  and  the  dirty  books." 

Mr.  Fourmy  waved  his  hand  airily: 

"This,  my  boy,  is  art,  hand-painted  in  oils.  Put  a 
gilt  frame  round  it  and  it's  quite  respectable.  These 
swine  think  art  is  a  bawdy  thing." 

"Where  do  you  sell  them  ?    To  a  shop  ?" 

"No.  To  the  gentlemen  at  the  Denmark,  the 
churchwardens  and  chapelgoers." 

Rene  sat  dejectedly  looking  into  the  fire.  At  last 
he  said: 

"I  wish  you  hadn't  told  me.  It  doesn't  seem  worth 
while  doing  anything." 

62 


PROFESSOR  SMALLMAN 

He  went  back  to  his  room,  but  his  joy  in  the  books 
had  filtered  away.  To  read  through  them  was  a  heavy 
task  which  had  become  to  him  nothing  but  the  com- 
mercial traffic  of  his  time,  knowledge,  and  brains  for 
money.  He  had  no  motive  for  doing  it  but  the  cold 
necessity  of  somehow  making  a  living.  All  day  long 
he  read  and  read  until  his  eyes  ached,  and  he  sat  far 
into  the  night  writing  and  rewriting  until  he  had  pro- 
duced four  hundred  words  that  looked  like  the  sort  of 
stuff  he  read  in  the  literary  columns  of  the  news- 
papers. 

A  depressed  mood  of  appalling  skepticism  seized 
him.  His  father  and  mother,  his  brother  and  sister- 
in-law,  these  were  his  world,  and  they  were  contented 
with  a  monotonous  small  happiness,  and  he  was  the 
fool  to  look  for  more.  Ah !  but  the  days  in  Scotland, 
the  graciousness  and  the  fun  that  those  other  peo- 
ple knew;  the  sweetness  of  waiting  upon  Cathleen's 
coming;  her  coming,  the  hours  of  tenderness 
and  pure  laughter,  and  her  warm  comradeship 
and  the  zest  of  the  emotions  they  could  rouse 
in  each  other  and  turn  to  a  golden  glee!  But 
that  was  all  done,  and  there  was  now  only  pov- 
erty and  disgrace,  and  beyond,  the  sniggering  of 
the  men  who  loved  nothing  but  women  and  the  idea  of 
women. 

He  kept  back  his  review  for  three  days,  being  fear- 
ful lest  the  editor  should  think  him  careless  or  over- 
eager,  and  he  rather  prided  himself  on  his  cunning  in 
doing  so.  It  was  his  first  attempt  to  manipulate  the 
impression  he  might  make,  and  the  illusion  of  subtle 

63 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

activity  it  brought  gave  him  some  solace  in  his  mis- 
ery. 

Other  books  came  from  the  Post,  and  he  wrote  to 
thank  Professor  Smallman,  who  invited  him  to  lunch 
on  Sunday. 

He  had  been  twice  before  to  the  Professor's  house, 
to  the  garden  party  which  he  gave  annually  to  work 
off  the  social  obligations  incurred  during  the  academic 
year.  For  Thrigsby  he  had  a  very  good  garden,  and 
an  old  house  in  a  neighborhood  which  still  bore  some 
traces  of  a  rural  character,  though  the  regiments  of 
little  pink  brick  houses  were  bearing  down  on  it  with 
an  alarming  swiftness.  His  garden  contained  three 
plum  trees  and  a  pear  tree,  gooseberry  and  currant 
bushes,  and  raspberry  canes. 

Mrs.  Fourmy  had  thought  the  Smallmans  must  be 
what  she  called  "grand  people,"  since  they  had  lunch 
instead  of  dinner;  but  Mr.  Fourmy  remembered  a 
Mr.  Smallman  who  used  to  live  in  Kite  Street  and 
had  two  sons,  of  whom  this  might  very  well  be  one — 
a  good-looking  boy,  neat  and  solemn,  just  a  little  too 
neat  and  obliging,  always  opening  gates  for  old  ladies 
and  picking  up  handkerchiefs  dropped  by  old  gentle- 
men— that  sort  of  boy.  "Would  call  me  'Sir'  the  only 
time  I  ever  spoke  to  him.  I'll  be  bound  that's  the 
one." 

It  helped  Rene  a  little  to  know  for  certain  that  the 
Professor  had  once  been  a  boy,  but  Mrs.  Smallman  he 
remembered  as  a  lady  of  a  gentleness  and  kindness  al- 
most terrifying,  so  kind  that  she  had  a  way  of  not 

64 


seeming  to  hear  you  when  you  were  stuttering  out 
some  preposterously  foolish  remark.  Everything  was 
so  easy  for  her;  she  was  so  sure  of  the  strength  of 
her  position  as  a  good  hostess  and  the  wife  of  a  popu- 
lar and  important  man;  and  there  were  the  children-, 
who  were  allowed  to  look  down  from  the  nursery 
window  at  the  garden  party.  You  could  not  talk  to 
Mrs.  Smallman  long  without  having  your  eyes  drawn 
to  them,  and  then,  if  you  were  a  sensitive  person  like 
Rene,  you  felt  that  this  house  was  full  of  an  inti- 
macy jealous  of  its  beauty,  so  that  it  repelled  strang- 
ers. Friendliness  there  was,  but  it  ended  abruptly; 
the  wife's  eyes  lighting  on  the  husband,  the  husband's 
on  the  wife,  or  the  eyes  of  both  meeting  and  turning 
to  the  children  at  the  window  could  bring  it  to  a  cruel 
and  sudden  close. 

Rene  could  not  explain  to  himself  the  uneasiness 
that  came  over  him  at  the  garden  parties,  or  the  dread 
of  it  that  overwhelmed  him  as  he  pushed  open  the 
gate  and  rang  the  bell  on  that  Sunday. 

There  was  a  bright  green  parasol  in  the  hall  table, 
and  by  it  were  two  bowler  hats.  From  the  drawing- 
room  came  a  faint  buzz  of  chatter,  and  he  saw  that  it 
contained  the  Professor  and  his  wife;  Blease,  the  Jew- 
ish Professor  of  English;  M'Elroy,  the  great  man  of 
the  University,  captain  of  the  cricket  eleven,  Presi- 
dent of  the  Union — it  would  take  a  page  to  enumerate 
his  distinctions;  a  little  man  who  looked  like  an  un- 
successful attempt  to  repeat  the  Professor;  and  a 
young  lady  in  a  bright  green  costume.  Rene  observed 
at  once  that  the  other  men  were  wearing  black  boots, 

65 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

and  became  dreadfully  conscious  of  his  own  new 
brown  pair. 

"I'm  so  glad  you  could  come,"  said  Mrs.  Smallman, 
and  she  introduced  him  to  Blease. 

"Seen  you  about,"  said  the  Jew.  "Third-year  man, 
aren't  you?" 

"Just  beginning  my  third  year,"  said  Rene  mis- 
erably. 

Blease  had  made  his  remark  sound  friendly,  and 
acute.  Rather  clever  of  a  Professor  to  be  able  to  place 
a  man  outside  his  own  subject! 

"We  stand  for  something,  you  know,"  continued 
Blease.  "Culture!  A  handful  of  men  upholding  the 
standard.  Good  for  us  to  be  kept  in  touch  with 
working  life.  Don't  you  think  so,  M'Elroy  ?" 

"Yes.  That's  where  we  score  over  Oxford  and 
Cambridge,  though  they  can  never  understand 
that." 

Their  talk  was  above  Rene.  He  remembered  Cam- 
bridge as  a  place  of  enthralling  beauty,  but  to  com- 
pare this  and  that  was  rather  too  sweeping  for  him, 
and  he  found  it  baffling,  and  to  regard  himself  as 
standing  for  anything  was  entirely  foreign  to  his 
temper.  The  talk  shot  to  and  fro  above  him,  and  he 
found  his  eyes  being  engaged  by  the  bright  green. 
The  young  lady  was  sparkling,  easy,  gay,  a  little  fig- 
ure of  energy  and  charm. 

"She  is  beautiful,"  said  Rene  to  himself. 

Then  he  decided  that  she  was  not  beautiful.  She 
turned  her  face  into  another  light,  and  beauty  came 
into  it  again;  another  turn  and  it  vanished.  A  will- 

66 


PROFESSOR  SMALLMAN 

o'-the-wisp,  the  hunting  of  which  became  an  absorb- 
ing pursuit. 

At  lunch  Rene  sat  opposite  her,  and  hardly  ever 
took  his  eyes  from  her  face.  Only  when  he  seemed  in 
danger  of  meeting  her  gaze  did  he  turn  away.  Once 
he  met  her  eyes  and  she  smiled,  seemed  to  be  consid- 
ering him  gravely  and  very  seriously  in  the  depths 
of  her  mind,  then  dismissed  him. 

"She  is  beautiful,"  thought  he,  and  from  that  mo- 
ment she  had  his  homage. 

Presently  she  appealed  to  him: 

"Mr.  M'Elroy  won't  have  it  that  Thrigsby  is  better 
than  London.  What  do  you  say?" 

"I've  never  been  to  London,"  replied  Rene. 

"Don't  you  love  Thrigsby?" 

"It's  been  my  home  always.  I  don't  know  that  I 
ever  thought  about  it." 

M'Elroy  said: 

"One  thinks  about  everything  nowadays." 

Something  in  the  young  man's  tone  roused  Rene 
to  protest. 

"Oh  no  ...  lots  of  things  one  does  without  .  .  ." 
But  he  swallowed  the  rest.  A  sudden  flow  and  ebb  of 
emotion  had  left  him  speechless,  and  he  felt  utterly 
foreign  to  the  company  and  to  the  charmed  atmos- 
phere of  the  household.  Mrs.  Smallman  talked  to 
him  for  a  little,  but  he  felt  that  she  was  speaking 
through  him  at  her  husband,  so  that  he  could  not  keep 
his  face  toward  her,  but  was  constantly  turning 
toward  the  Professor  as  though  the  reply  were  to 
come  from  him,  or  would  at  any  rate  be  worthless 

67 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

without  his  indorsement.  And  always  the  Professor 
smiled  with  a  vague  friendliness  that  was  discon- 
certing. 

After  the  meal  he  was  taken  to  the  study,  a  long 
room  with  books  all  round  the  walls,  ponderous 
books,  blue  books,  year  after  year  of  reports  of 
learned  institutions ;  reproductions  of  Italian  pictures ; 
photographs  of  Mrs.  Smallman  on  the  mantelpiece, 
a  photograph  of  Mrs.  Smallman  on  the  desk.  Rene 
was  given  a  large  chair  and  a  small  cigar,  which  he 
began  to  smoke  before  he  realized  what  he  was  do- 
ing. He  rarely  smoked,  did  not  care  for  it,  and  pres- 
ently he  dropped  the  cigar  into  the  fireplace.  The 
Professor  stood  looking  out  of  the  window.  Two  of 
the  children  were  playing  under  the  plum-tree.  The 
feeling  of  being  thrust  out  assailed  Rene.  The  Pro- 
fessor turned: 

"Well?"  he  asked.     "What's  the  trouble?" 

"My  father "  began  Rene. 

"Ah!     Well?" 

"He  deserted  my  mother  a  long  time  ago.  He 
came  back.  My  brother's  married." 

"I  see.  So  you're  the  only  possible  breadwinner. 
Any  work  in  your  father?  How  old  is  he?" 

"I  don't  know  how  old  he  is.    But  work?    No." 

"It's  bad  luck,  but  it  often  happens.  I've  had  to 
keep  my  father  since  he  was  fifty.  What  about  your 
family?  The  name's  well  known  in  Thrigsby." 

So  Professor  Smallman  was  the  boy  his  father 
remembered!  Rene  gained  confidence.  It  was  some- 
thing to  know  that  his  experience  was  not  singular. 

68 


"They  did  help  until  my  father  came  back.  They 
won't  now,  and  I  don't  want  them  to.  They  don't 
understand  the  pain  of  receiving  charity  uncharitably 
given.  They  call  it  ingratitude." 

"They  have  their  point  of  view." 

"So  have  I  mine,"  said  Rene,  astonished  at  his  own 
boldness. 

"Your  work's  good,"  said  the  Professor.  "Tweed- 
dale's  reports  of  you  were  always  excellent.  As  you 
know,  I  don't  come  in  touch  with  men  until  their 
third  year,  and  then  only  if  they're  good.  You  can 
take  that  from  me.  I  must  tell  you — it  wouldn't  be 
fair  not  to — that  one  doesn't  know  in  the  least  how 
good  you  are  going  to  be.  One  has  an  uncertainty 
about  you.  In  a  way,  that's  all  to  the  good.  I  like 
what  you've  written  for  the  Post.  So  does  Pigott 
the  editor.  What  about  journalism?  Do  you  write 
easily?" 

"No." 

"It  rather  scotches  that,  then.  Pupils?  You  could 
make  a  little  that  way,  but  it's  drudging  work  when 
you're  reading  as  well.  I  could  give  you  two  first- 
year  men,  pretty  bad,  both  of  them,  and  Miss  Brock, 
the  girl  you  met  at  lunch,  has  a  young  brother  who 
can't  get  through  the  matric.  That's  as  much  as 
you  could  manage." 

Rene  had  no  notion  how  much  he  ought  to  be 
paid.  He  asked,  and  when  he  heard  the  amount  his 
heart  overflowed  with  gratitude,  and  he  walked  home 
with  a  new  vigor  in  his  stride  and  a  prouder  car- 
riage of  his  head.  His  father  and  mother  were  out. 

69 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

His  news  would  not  keep,  and  he  went  round  to 
George,  first  changing  his  brown  boots  for  black.  He 
reckoned  that  in  three  terms  he  would  be  able  to 
make  nearly  as  much  as  his  brother's  whole  income, 
and  would  have  the  vacations  to  repair  any  damage 
done  to  his  own  work.  Then  he  would  take  his 
degree,  and  the  whole  world,  all  life,  would  open 
up  before  him. 


VII 
FLYING  NEAR  THE  CANDLE 

A  man's  heart  may  minister  comfort  to  him  in  the  hopes 
of  that  thing  for  which  he  yet  has  no  ground  to  hope. 

THE  Brocks  lived  in  Gait's  Park,  an  elegant  dis- 
trict shut  off  from  the  rest  of  Thrigsby  by 
gates  and  unoccupied  lodges.  Here,  in  ease  and  amid 
gardens,  dwelt  families  of  an  old-established  pros- 
perity, many  Germans,  Armenians,  and  Greeks,  and 
some  of  the  descendants  of  Thrigsby's  famous  men. 
Here  also  were  the  two  hostels  of  the  university,  some 
schools,  one  co-educational  seminary,  the  house  of  a 
painter  with  a  great  local  fame,  and  that  of  the  mu- 
nicipal organist.  Good  men  had  lived  in  Gait's  Park, 
and  it  had  once  been  the  center  of  Thrigsbeian  cul- 
ture; but  now  all  those  who  dwell  in  it  have  the  air 
of  having  been  left  behind,  and  the  little  pink  houses 
are  menacing  it,  even  as  they  menace  the  garden  of 
Professor  Smallman. 

Through  the  winter  Rene  Fourmy  came  twice  a 
week  to  coach  young  Kurt  Brock  in  mathematics  and 
French.  Occasionally  he  was  asked  to  stay  to  lunch, 
and  then  he  was  too  sore  from  the  discomfort  of  Mrs. 
Brock's  broken  English — she  was  a  German  from 

71 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

Hamburg — to  be  able  to  support  Miss  Brock,  Linda, 
in  her  efforts  to  make  conversation.  Also  he  was 
engrossed  in  the  problem  first  presented  to  him  on 
his  original  meeting  with  her :  Was  she,  was  she  not, 
beautiful?  Sometimes  for  a  fortnight  he  would 
decide  that  she  was  so,  and  then  his  heart  would  go 
out  to  her  in  homage,  an  impersonal  emotion  bestowed 
on  her  as  though  she  were  a  tree  or  a  sunset.  That 
she  might  be  intelligent  interested  him  not  at  all.  Ex- 
cept in  the  case  of  Cathleen  Bentley,  where  he  had 
been  surprised  into  an  intimacy,  refined  and  diluted 
with  adoration,  he  had  regarded  women  as  existing 
only  to  receive  in  ignorance  his  shy  homage. 

As  with  the  Smallmans,  so  here  he  had  to  give  his 
mother  a  detailed  report  of  the  household  and  its 
manner  of  living.  To  her  they  also  were  "grand," 
and  she  never  tired  of  listening  to  the  tale  of  their 
doings,  their  servants,  what  they  had  to  eat  and 
drink,  what  they  sat  on,  what  they  wore,  and  whom 
they  entertained.  He  reported  faithfully — the  rings 
on  Mrs.  Brock's  fingers,  her  richly-clad  inelegant  fig- 
ure, her  dog-like  eyes  that  could  never  smile,  her 
enormous  appetite — whereon  Mrs.  Fourmy  would 
sigh  and  say: 

"I  never  was  a  big  eater  myself." 

Kurt,  the  boy,  Rene  liked,  for  he  was  so  thoroughly 
convinced  of  his  own  stupidity  that  it  was  impossible 
to  teach  him  anything.  German  only  in  name,  he  was 
English  and  Thrigsbeian  in  everything  else,  and  Rene 
felt  almost  that  he  belonged  to  an  older  generation 
when  he  discovered  that  Kurt  could  not  remember 

72 


FLYING  NEAR  THE  CANDLE 

the  horse-trams  in  the  Derby  Road,  or  a  time  when 
there  were  no  motor-cars.  Kurt  possessed  a  motor- 
cycle, or  it  possessed  him,  so  that  almost  everything 
else  in  his  eyes  was  "bally  rot."  He  excepted  music, 
which,  with  his  family,  he  loved  German-fashion, 
greedily  and  indiscriminately.  His  attitude  toward 
his  sister  was  that  of  one  who  knows  so  much  that  he 
has  nothing  left  to  hope.  Against  his  mother  and  sister 
he  used  to  protest  to  Rene,  whom  he  thought  of  as  a 
"poor  beggar"  but  a  "good  enough  sort."  Rene  never 
saw  it,  but  often  Kurt  would  outmaneuver  Linda  in 
her  attempts  to  waylay  his  tutor,  and  once  he  went 
so  far  as  to  mumble  this  warning: 

"What  I  can't  stand  about  women  is  the  way  they 
go  nosing  round." 

"Do  they?"  asked  Rene,  looking  up  from  Hall 
and  Knight. 

"My  sister  does.  She  wants  to  know  how  a  man 
works.  She's  like  me  with  a  motor.  Haven't  you  got 
sisters  ?" 

"No.    I  wish  I  had." 

"I  don't  know.  Having- a  sister  like  Lin  is  enough 
to  put  a  man  off  women  for  life." 

"She  has  always  been  very  charming  to  me." 

Kurt  snorted. 

Another  day  he  growled  out: 

"Linda  says  you  are  like  Schiller.  You'd  better 
look  out.  She  said  the  last  young  feller  was  like  Mo- 
zart." 

"I've  never  seen  a  picture  of  Mozart,"  replied  Rene. 

73 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"Silly  sort  of  face." 

That  very  day  Linda  outmaneuvered  Kurt.  As  a 
rule  he  walked  with  Rene  to  the  gates  of  Gait's  Park, 
but  now,  believing  his  sister  to  be  safely  out  of  the 
way,  and  also  wishing  to  change  the  tire  of  his  motor- 
cycle, he  let  Rene  depart  alone,  and  Rene  was  not  gone 
above  a  hundred  yards  when  he  encountered  Linda. 
He  bowed,  removed  his  hat,  and  was  for  making  on, 
when  she  stopped. 

"I'm  glad  to  meet  you,"  she  said,  with  such  a  smile 
that  Rene  felt  once  and  for  all  that  she  was  beautiful, 
and  was  so  confused  by  his  own  enthusiasm  that  he 
did  not  take  the  hand  she  proffered,  and  put  her  to 
the  awkwardness  of  withdrawing  it. 

"I — I "  He  looked  desperately  up  and  down 

the  road,  but  could  find  'no  topic,  and  ended  lamely  by 
saying : 

"I— I  like  your  brother." 

"Oh!  Kurt!  But  I  am  glad  to  have  met  you.  I 
hoped  you  would  be  at  the  Smallmans  last  Sunday.  I 
was  so  disappointed."  Her  voice  too  was  beautiful  in 
its  friendly,  emphatic  cadences. 

"I— I  wasn't  asked." 

"Oh,  you  aren't  asked.    You  go.    Everybody  goes." 

(He  had  never  been  able  to  identify  himself  with 
everybody,  or  to  take  everybody's  doing  for  a  reason 
for  his  own.) 

She  went  on: 

"I  wanted  to  ask  you  if  you  would  care  to  come 
and  hear  me  play  at  the  Goetheverein — that's  the  Ger- 
man club — next  Wednesday.  It's  a  good  program; 

74 


FLYING  NEAR  THE  CANDLE 

Schubert,  Beethoven,  Brahms.  You'll  love  Beetho- 
ven." 

"My  mother  plays,  but  her  piano  has  yellow  keys, 
and  the  music  is  faded  like  the  keys." 

"It  must  be  beautiful  to  understand  your  mother. 
Professor  Smallman  has  told  me  all  about  you,  and  I 
do  hope  you'll  come." 

"I'd  like  to  come." 

"That's  settled  then.  We  have  supper  at  the  Verein, 
and  I'll  introduce  you  to  some  people  you'll  like  to 
know.  It's  nice  to  know  your  friends'  friends,  don't 
you  think?" 

Rene  felt  vaguely  uneasy. 

"Friends'  friends,"  he  repeated  almost  interroga- 
tively. 

"Friends,"  said  Miss  Brock,  "are  those  whom  you 
have  always  known  you  would  meet."  This  she  said 
with  a  kind  of  recklessness  that  was  almost  exaltation. 
It  certainly  startled  Rene  into  something  like  emotion, 
into  the  desire  to  respond.  For  the  first  time  during 
their  conversation  his  eyes  met  hers  full,  and  he  was 
confronted  with  a  smile  so  charmingly  inquisitive  that 
he  was  compelled  to  satisfy  their  curiosity  and  he 
jerked  out: 

"Yes.     Friends." 

And  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  had  given  and  he  had 
accepted — something.  Gift  and  acceptance  were  so 
surreptitious  that  the  nature  of  them  was  a  matter  of 
almost  complete  indifference.  The  great  thing  was  the 
giving  and  the  accepting,  and  the  excitement  of  the 
transaction  drowned  the  little  emotion  that  had  stirred 

75 


in  him.  One  more  glance  he  stole  at  her,  and  he  saw 
that  she  was  satisfied,  that  their  conversation  was  at 
an  end.  Yet  neither  could  end  it,  and  it  was  a  relief 
to  both  when  Kurt  came  hooting  and  snorting  by  on 
his  motorcycle. 

"Till  Wednesday  then,"  said  Miss  Brock. 

"You — you  didn't  say  what  time." 

"Oh!  Eight  o'clock.  But  you  might  like  to  come 
with  us — call  for  us  at  half-past  seven.  I  wish  you 
could  speak  German." 

"I  do  a  little." 

"Mother  will  like  that.     Good-by." 

She  turned  and  walked  away.  Rene  stood  rooted  to 
the  ground.  At  his  feet  he  saw  her  handkerchief.  He 
stooped  and  picked  it  up.  He  dared  not  run  after  her. 
He  pressed  the  handkerchief  to  his  lips,  then  angrily 
squeezed  it  up  into  a  ball  and  thrust  it  into  his  trous- 
ers pocket.  This  done,  he  shook  himself,  threw  back 
his  head,  and  strode  vigorously  homeward.  He  said 
to  himself: 

"I'm  damned  if  I  read  love  poems  to  her." 

He  had  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  but  for  the 
love  poems  things  would  never  have  got  so  madden- 
ingly out  of  hand  with  that  other  maiden  in  Scotland. 

He  added: 

"But  she  really  is  beautiful." 

Reading  a  book  at  supper  that  night,  he  knocked  a 
glass  of  beer  over  onto  his  trousers,  fumbled  for  his 
handkerchief,  found  Linda's,  mopped  up  the  beer  with 
it,  and  gave  it  to  his  mother  to  be  washed.  She 
washed  it  with  her  own  hands  that  night,  ironed  it, 

76 


FLYING  NEAR  THE  CANDLE 

and  placed  it  on  his  dressing-table  so  that  next  morn- 
ing he  was  confronted  by  the  embroidered  name — 
Linda. 

On  the  Wednesday  evening  he  clad  himself  in  his 
best  black  coat,  the  same  he  had  had  since  he  was  seven- 
teen, put  on  a  white  dicky  and  cuffs,  and  punctually  at 
7 :3O  stood  between  the  stucco  pillars  on  either  side  of 
the  Brocks'  front  door.  The  family  was  waiting  for 
him  in  the  hall.  The  women  wrere  muffled  up  in  veils, 
and  Kurt  was  wearing  a  very  smart  overcoat  and  new 
patent-leather  boots.  Behind  Kurt  in  the  darkness — 
for  the  hall  was  lit  only  by  one  flickering  gas-jet  in  a 
ground-glass  globe — stood  another  male  figure.  This 
advanced  into  the  light  and  was  revealed  as  M'Elroy. 

"You  know  each  other,"  said  Linda. 

Kurt  cut  in  with: 

"Of  course,  and  Fourmy  thinks  he  is  so  like  Mo- 
zart." 

Rene  felt  a  pang  of  uneasiness.  He  turned  to  Linda 
to  find  her  eyes  resting  now  on  M'Elroy,  now  on  him- 
self, with  quick  little  darting  glances  that  seemed  to 
take  in  every  detail.  It  exasperated  him  to  be  pitted 
against  M'Elroy,  but,  the  rivalry  having  been  intro- 
duced, though  unsought  by  himself,  he  rose  to  it,  and 
so,  he  felt,  did  M'Elroy.  By  way  of  protest  Rene 
moved  nearer  to  Mrs.  Brock,  who  was  sitting  on  the 
bottom  stair. 

"Gut  Abend!"  he  said.    "Ich  bin 

"Na,  Sie  sprechen  Deutsch?  So  ist's  gut.  1st  mir 
sehr  lieb  Deutsch  zu  horen." 

"Aber  nicht " 

77 


"Sie  sprechen  sehr  gut.  Mein  Sohn  wird  nie 
Deutsch  sprechen.  Im  Goetheverein  aber,  wo  man  so 
schone  Musik " 

"Ja»"  interrupted  Rene  at  a  venture,  and  he  found 
that,  with  these  three  expressions,  he  could  get  along 
very  well  and  keep  Mrs.  Brock  perfectly  happy  talking 
away  as  she  never  did  when  the  use  of  English  op- 
pressed her.  She  never  stopped.  She  talked  him  into 
the  cab  that  came  for  them,  out  of  it,  up  the  stairs  into 
the  German  club,  and  into  the  concert-room  where 
she  presented  him  to  other  women  like  herself,  who 
nodded  and  smiled  at  his  fumbled  utterances — and 
talked. 

The  room  was  arranged  like  a  restaurant  with  little 
tables  all  round  it,  and  the  platform  at  one  end  slightly 
raised.  For  the  most  part  the  audience  sat  in  little 
family  groups  and  drank  beer  and  ate  sandwiches. 
Rene  found  himself  confined  between  Mrs.  Brock  and 
another  stout  matron,  and  began  to  feel  rather  op- 
pressed and  to  wish  he  had  not  come.  Kurt  and 
M'Elroy  had  joined  a  band  of  young  men  who  took 
possession  of  a  corner  and  looked  on  at  the  scene  with 
English  disapproval  of  its  Germanism.  Some  of  them 
Rene  knew  for  Meyers  and  Schoeners  and  Krauses  of 
the  second  and  third  generation. 

The  room  was  soon  filled  with  smoke,  and  the  atmos- 
phere became  very  thick,  but  the  Germans  ate  and 
drank  till  their  faces  shone.  And  greedily  they  gulped 
down  the  music,  which  was  beautiful  and  charming  and 
sentimental  by  turns,  though  all  seemed  to  meet  with 
the  same  approval.  A  pale  young  Jew  played  the  violin 

78 


FLYING  NEAR  THE  CANDLE 

until  Rene  was  near  tears  and  Mrs.  Brock  heaved  fat 
sighs  of  contentment;  a  portly  Austrian  with  a  sweet 
little  tenor  voice  sang  Schubert's  Trout  song  so  neatly 
and  with  such  ease  that  Rene  wriggled  with  pleasure; 
and  there  were  quartets  and  a  solo  flute  and  a  piano 
duet  by  two  little  blonde  girls  with  pink  legs  and  ab- 
surd pale  eyes,  with  which  they  ogled  their  papa  in  the 
audience  and  the  portrait  of  the  Emperor  William  on 
the  wall;  and  Linda  played  a  Beethoven  sonata  (rather 
dull),  and  the  Prelude  of  Rachmaninoff,  which  was 
received  with  thunderous  applause.  She  wore  a  white 
dress  and  looked  very  fine,  plump,  and  comely,  with  her 
white  hands  hovering  over  her  and  descending  on  the 
keys,  and  her  head  swaying  until  upon  the  close  of 
the  music  it  drooped  to  show  a  beautiful  line  from  her 
neck  to  her  waist.  Rene  had  been  so  moved  by  the 
music  that  his  eyes  caught  greedily  at  this  extra  pleas- 
ure, and  they  never  moved  from  Linda's  face  as  she 
stepped  down  from  the  platform,  and  came  forward 
looking  for  her  party.  She  was  greeted  with  "Prosits" 
and  raised  tankards  as  she  passed  between  the  tables. 
Then  she  stopped  and  gazed  over  to  the  corner  where 
Kurt  was  sitting.  M'Elroy  stood  up  to  catch  her 
attention.  Rene  saw  that,  and  also  how  Linda  shrank 
away  from  the  assertion  and  the  claim,  feigned  that 
she  had  not  seen,  and  threaded  her  way  toward  her 
mother's  table.  To  cover  her  coming,  Rene  began  to 
talk  wildly  in  German: 

"Das  war  wunderschon.  Ich  habe  nie  solches  Kla- 
vierspiel  gehort.  Ich  bin " 

"Linda  versteht.     Ja.     Aber  sie  fiihlt  nicht  mehr 

79 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

als "  And  a  torrent  of  long-involved  sentences  de- 
scended on  Rene  and  brought  him  to  a  hopeless  bewil- 
derment. That  had  been  his  growing  condition.  This 
incursion  into  a  foreign  world,  into  an  atmosphere  of 
easy  social  intercourse,  was  for  him,  a  dweller  among 
the  humble  ingregarious  inhabitants  of  mediocre 
streets,  an  ordeal,  a  fierce  conflict  with  impressions. 
Already  to  have  had  so  much  music  to  absorb  had  put 
some  strain  upon  him.  The  effort  to  follow  Mrs. 
Brock's  conversation  had  been  exhausting,  and  to  save 
himself  he  clung  to  Linda  and  the  idea  of  Linda.  He 
rose  as  she  came  up.  She  stood  for  a  moment  with 
her  hand  in  her  mother's,  looking,  for  a  brief  space, 
like  a  Cranach  Eve,  all  charm  and  tenderness,  the  very 
bloom  of  womanhood  upon  her.  She  took  his  chair, 
and  he  had  to  fetch  another.  He  was  forced  to  place 
it  close  to  hers,  so  that  he  had  some  difficulty  in  not 
touching  her.  Presently  she  moved  so  that  the  smallest 
accidental  gesture  must  make  him  touch  her.  He 
edged  away,  and  she  turned  and  looked  at  him  search- 
ingly,  inquisitively.  His  face  was  blank  as  that  of  a 
statue.  His  mind  knew  no  thought.  He  seemed  to 
himself  to  be  drowning  in  a  languor  that  was  part 
weariness,  part  excitement,  at  her  propinquity. 

She  laughed,  and  her  laughter  roused  him,  but  al- 
ready she  was  talking  animatedly  to  her  mother  and 
her  mother's  friends,  and  Rene  became  absorbed  in 
contemplating  her  honey-colored  hair,  the  rounding 
line  of  her  shoulder,  the  pretty  modeling  of  her  cheek 
and  neck.  And,  through  her  conversation  with  her 
mother,  with  her  white  shoulders  and  the  pretty  mod- 

80 


FLYING  NEAR  THE  CANDLE 

eling  of  her  cheek  and  neck  she  carried  on  with  Rene 
an  intercourse  more  terrifyingly  intimate  than  any  he 
had  ever  known.  He  had  a  disquieting  sense  of  using 
more  faculties  than  he  had  ever  suspected  in  himself. 
It  was  pleasantly  adventurous,  but  to  a  youth  of  his 
virtue  it  savored  too  alarmingly  of  black  magic  that 
her  attention  should  be  upon  him  while  her  words 
were  elsewhere,  and  that  he  should  be  so  keenly  aware 
of  her.  It  sent  the  room  whirling  round  him,  made 
his  identity,  which  hitherto  had  seemed  definite  enough 
for  all  the  apparent  purposes  of  life,  melt  and  trickle 
away,  and  cruelly  transferred  the  center  of  his  uni- 
verse from  himself  to  Linda.  And,  when  she  looked 
toward  him  again,  it  was  almost  as  though  she  had 
surprised  his  state,  so  certain  did  she  look,  but  still  in- 
quisitive and  malicious. 

"Well?    Did  you  talk  German?" 

"I  said  you  were  wunderschon."  He  leaned  for- 
ward so  that  his  hand  touched  her  arm.  He  was  so 
desperate  that  boldness  was  his  only  course.  She  had 
taken  something  from  him.  He  was  in  a  mood  to 
claim  it. 

"Am  I?"  she  said.  "You  looked  as  if  you  didn't 
see  me." 

"But  I  did  see  you  all  the  time,  especially  when  you 
drooped  your  head." 

"Oh!    Then!" 

And  with  the  acuteness  of  his  desperation  he  per- 
ceived that  she  was  aware  of  the  effectiveness  of  the 
drooping  of  her  head.  That  made  him  angry,  though 
he  knew  not  why. 

81 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"It's  so  hot  in  here,"  she  resumed;  "will  you  take 
me  home  ?  It  would  be  nice  to  walk.  The  others  will 
drive." 

She  explained  to  her  mother,  and  Rene  followed 
her,  torn  between  expectancy  and  alarm.  At  the  door 
he  met  M'Elroy.  For  a  moment  he  was  delighted  to 
see  that  hero,  saw  in  him  an  agent  of  relief. 

"It's  too  bad,  Linda,"  said  M'Elroy;  "I  haven't  had 
a  word  with  you  all  evening." 

"Well?  There  are  other  evenings,  and  we  are  both 
so  young."  She  said  this  with  a  rather  pretty  German 
accent,  the  assumption  of  which  seemed  to  infuriate 
M'Elroy,  for  he  flung  off  with  an  angry  "All  right !" 
and  left  them.  Linda  smiled  slowly  to  herself,  and 
Rene  was  conscious  of  a  doom  settling  on  himself,  and 
all  his  hope  seemed  to  have  gone  with  M'Elroy. 

They  parted  to  go  to  their  respective  cloakrooms, 
and  Rene  told  himself  that  she  would  change  her  mind, 
would  dismiss  him  also  and  wait  for  her  mother,  that 
what  his  eyes  had  seen  he  had  not  seen,  that,  after  all, 
Linda  desired  of  him  nothing  but  the  common  civility 
of  his  escort.  But  all  his  attempted  evasions  only 
excited  him  the  more,  and  by  the  time  he  met  Linda 
again  at  the  door  he  was  speechless  and  in  a  sweat. 

The  night  was  cool,  clouded,  and  dark.  Rene  walked 
very  fast. 

"I  can't  keep  this  up,"  said  Linda,  and  he  dropped 
to  a  crawl. 

"That's  better,"  she  said  with  a  sigh,  as  they 
walked  down  the  nigh  empty  streets.  "Oh,  dear,  I 
should  be  so  sorry  if  you  hadn't  been  happy." 

82 


FLYING  NEAR  THE  CANDLE 

"I — I  was  happy.    I  loved  the  music." 

"You  can  tell  almost  everything  in  music." 

"If  you  have  anything  to  tell." 

"How  droll  you  are — so  literal." 

"Miss  Brock "  said  Rene.  They  were  walking 

very  slowly  now.  They  had  turned  down  the  last 
lighted  street  before  the  darkness  of  Gait's  Park.  It 
gaped  before  them,  inviting,  menacing,  romantic,  rous- 
ing him  to  a  mood  of  antagonism  to  the  growing  fasci- 
nation she  was  exercising  over  him. 

"Droll?"  he  said.  "I  don't  know.  I  mean  what  I 
say,  though.  I  can't  always  say  what  I  mean." 

"Who  can?"  asked  she. 

"I  mean,  suppose  you  have  a  feeling  for  anything, 
for  your  father  or  your  mother  or  something  beauti- 
ful, and  the  feeling  is  so  big  that  it  can't  get  out " 

"One  gets  to  think,"  said  Linda  in  a  quiet  little  voice, 
soothing,  caressing,  "that  men  don't  have  feelings  like 
that." 

They  passed  through  the  gates  into  the  darkness  of 
the  Park.  They  walked  on  in  silence,  slower,  slower, 
till  they  came  to  a  weeping  tree  that  hung  right  over 
the  footpath.  Here  they  stopped  altogether.  The 
blood  beat  at  his  temples,  he  was  near  choking,  and 
there  was  Linda  in  his  arms  and  he  had  kissed  her, 
shyly,  coolly,  almost  defiantly.  It  was  soon  over,  but 
she  lingered,  and  out  of  the  darkness  came  her  voice 
saying : 

"But  you  are  the  drollest  dear." 

Stung  into  a  passionate  desire  to  justify  his  situa- 
tion, he  cried : 

83 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"By  God,  but  I  do  love  you." 

A  little  cry  from  her  (he  scarcely  heard  it),  a  strong 
embrace,  and  there  came  another  kiss,  wherein  was 
neither  sweetness  nor  delight,  but  only  a  bitter  hunger. 


VIII 
INTIMACY 

By  hunger  sharply  sped 

To  grasp  at  weapons  ere  he  learns  their  use. 

SOON  Rene  found  himself  engaged  upon  an  inti- 
macy with  Linda  Brock — that  is  to  say,  he  was 
ever  at  her  command,  her  constant  escort,  her  listener. 
She  talked  of  everything,  seemed  to  empty  her  mind 
for  him.  Everything  she  discussed — the  relation  of 
the  individual  to  the  race,  the  race's  rights  in  the  indi- 
vidual, childbirth,  the  upbringing  of  children,  and  the 
position  of  women.  He  had  not  her  reading,  and  was 
at  first  fogged  by  her  discourse,  her  voluble  juggling 
with  topics  and  ideas  that  could  not  enter  his  mind 
without  engendering  a  certain  heat  and  releasing  some 
emotion.  It  was  not  long,  however,  before  he  found 
himself  master  of  her  jargon,  not  long  either  before 
she  found  out  how  to  use  it  to  bring  him  to  a  confu- 
sion from  which  there  was  no  issue  but  by  kisses  and 
embraces,  and  because  he  kissed  and  embraced  he 
loved,  or  believed  that  he  loved.  All  his  unhappiness 
he  ascribed  to  their  necessary  separations,  and  he  was 
persuaded  that  his  soreness  could  be  healed,  his  dis- 
satisfactions repaired  in  a  future  possession.  The 

85 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

force  of  old  habit  kept  his  working  life  intact,  and 
there  he  was  happy  and  proud  to  think  that  in  his  love 
there  should  be  so  noble  a  coolness.  He  tried  to  ex- 
plain this  to  her,  and  she  said : 

"Yes,  of  course.  You  .must  keep  your  work  sepa- 
rate. Love  and  fine  thinking,  you  know." 

He  liked  the  phrase,  not  knowing  it  for  a  quotation ; 
but  he  never  observed  that  she  always  set  herself  to 
disturb  his  coolness,  and  never  let  him  go  from  her  till 
it  was  drowned  in  a  flood  of  warmth. 

She  took  him  in  hand,  made  him  buy  clothes,  gloves, 
spats,  chose  his  ties  for  him  and  his  shirts;  discovered 
that  he  only  wore  one  shirt  a  week,  and  tacitly  in- 
formed him  that  two  was  the  irreducible  minimum; 
persuaded  him  to  abolish  the  parting  in  his  hair  and  to 
brush  it  back ;  to  abandon  his  straight  for  winged  col- 
lars ;  presented  him  with  gaily-colored  socks ;  lent  him 
books,  modern  works  of  fiction  and  fashionable  philos- 
ophy; induced  him  to  become  a  member  of  the  Union, 
though  she  could  never  get  him  to  speak  at  debates. 
On  her  instigation  he  joined  a  tennis  club  in  the  sum- 
mer term,  proved  rather  skillful,  and  was  invited  by 
M'Elroy  to  play  for  the  University  second  team. 

Linda  was  ambitious  for  him,  but  she  could  not 
make  him  ambitious,  and  she  failed  to  develop  opin- 
ions in  him ;  but  always,  just  as  she  was  despairing  of 
him  and  on  the  point  of  dismissing  him  from  her 
mind  as  dull,  he  would  come  out  with  some  simple 
comment  that  delighted  her  with  its  directness  and 
force.  Then  she  would  go  to  Professor  Smallman 
and  talk  about  Rene,  and  the  Professor  would  say: 

86 


INTIMACY 

"A  good  sound  brain.  Nothing  unusual  except  that 
one  feels  in  him  things  unroused.  No  passion." 

"Ah!     Passion!" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  purring,  "I  put  it  rather  neatly,  I 
think,  the  other  day.  The  temperament  of  a  clerk 
with  a  brain  too  good  for  that  kind  of  work.  He  has 
a  conscience." 

"But  do  you  think  he  will  do  anything?" 

"He  will  do  what  he  thinks  right." 

"Then  you  do  agree  that  he  is  a  force?  I  feel  that 
so  strongly  about  him." 

Professor  Smallman  smiled  in  his  charming,  unin- 
terested way. 

"Not  much  good  being  a  force  if  you  are  an  econo- 
mist. That's  specialist's  work.  Even  business  would 
be  better." 

And  Linda  began  to  map  out  a  career  for  Rene — 
business,  the  city  council,  Parliament,  and  thereaf- 
ter— who  knows? 

Rene  was  very  docile.  His  friendship  for  Linda 
made  life  more  gracious,  more  full,  and  he  was  shed- 
ding the  awkwardness  that  had  grown  on  him  during 
his  two  years  of  solitude.  He  was  able  to  go  to  Pro- 
fessor Smallman's  whenever  he  liked,  and  other  houses 
had  been  thrown  open  to  him. 

At  first  he  had  endeavored  to  bring  the  new  spirit 
that  he  had  won  into  his  life  at  home,  but  his  father 
had  become  merely  ribald,  and  in  his  mother  the  spark 
of  feeling  that  had  been  struck  out  of  her  on  his  return 
from  Scotland  had  died  away  and  would  not  come 

87 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

again.  What  she  felt  and  thought  she  concealed  with 
chatter,  and  too  many  of  her  notes  were  now  exasper- 
atingly  echoes  of  her  husband's.  For  a  short  while 
Rene  went  through  an  agony  of  shame  when  he  felt  his 
parents  as  a  drag  on  him,  and  he  could  never  return 
home  without  an  acute  feeling  of  sadness.  To  coun- 
teract this  he  used  to  talk  to  Linda  of  his  mother  as 
she  had  been  before  his  father's  return,  brave,  humor- 
ous, quick  to  see  and  to  understand.  In  such  talk 
Linda  delighted,  and  she  made  him  promise  to  intro- 
duce her  to  his  household. 

It  was  arranged. 

"Afternoon  tea,  I  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Fourmy. 
"Thin  bread  and  butter  in  the  parlor." 

"I  think  she'd  like  what  we  always  have.  She 
particularly  said  you  weren't  to  make  any  fuss." 

"But  I'd  like  to  wear  my  black  silk.  I  don't  often, 
now." 

"You  can  wear  what  you  like,  mother.  Only  let  us 
have  tea  as  we  always  have  it.  I'm  sure  she'd  like  it 
better.  Not  sardines  or  tinned  salmon  or  any  of  those 
things.  They  only  have  light  tea  because  they  have 
dinner  afterward.  It  would  be  silly  of  us  to  pretend 
to  be  anything  but  what  we  are." 

"But  they'll  think " 

"I  don't  care  what  they  think." 

Mrs.  Fourmy  stole  a  quick  glance  at  him  and  said : 

"No.     You  never  do." 

Her  tone  roused  him  to  a  hope  that  the  old  mother 
had  come  again,  and  he  turned  to  her,  only  to  see  the 
quick  light  die  down  in  her  eyes  and  into  them  come  the 

88 


INTIMACY 

querulous  questioning  expression  that  seemed  to  for- 
bid him  to  pass  beyond  the  empty  words  and  looks 
she  gave  him.  He  realized  then  how  false  an  idea  he 
must  have  given  to  Linda,  and  he  wished  she  were  not 
coming. 

When  the  day  arrived,  just  before  he  went  to  fetch 
Linda  he  sought  out  his  mother,  and  found  her  dress- 
ing in  her  room  with  his  father  lying  on  his  bed  smok- 
ing and  reading. 

"I'm  going  now,"  said  Rene.  "I  shan't  be  more  than 
half  an  hour." 

"I  don't  mind  betting,"  chuckled  his  father,  "that 
you'll  be  more  than  that.  There's  no  end  to  it  when 
these  women  get  to  dressing  up  for  each  other.  Look 
at  your  mother ;  she's  been  brushing  her  hair  this  half- 
hour  past." 

"I  thought  you  were  out,"  said  Rene,  cold  with  an 
almost  hatred. 

"Me?    Tea-partying's  my  line.    Always  has  been." 

"Don't  tease  him,"  said  Mrs.  Fourmy.  "Don't  tease 
him." 

Mr.  Fourmy  had  his  waistcoat  unbuttoned,  so  that  to 
Rene  he  seemed  all  fat  stomach  bulging  through  coarse 
shirting.  He  turned  away  in  disgust.  As  he  closed  the 
door  he  heard  his  mother  say: 

"It  isn't  fair  when  the  boy's  in  love." 

He  held  the  door  open,  and  heard  his  father  turn  on 
the  creaking  bed  and  laugh  and  say: 

"Love?  A  gawk  like  that?  Statues  are  his  line, 
not  women." 

89 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

Upon  that  Rene  so  lost  himself  in  a  sick  dread  that 
he  was  hardly  conscious  as  he  walked,  and  seemed  to 
have  been  marvelously  propelled  from  Hog  Lane  to 
Gait's  Park. 

Linda  was  ready  for  him  in  a  light  muslin  frock  and 
an  adorable  little  tip-tilted  hat.  He  had  never  seen  her 
so  pretty. 

They  decided  to  walk  by  way  of  Potter's  Park  to 
see  the  flowers.  Rene  could  hardly  get  his  words  out, 
but  he  felt  that  he  must  do  something  to  explain. 

"You  may  be  disappointed,  you  know.  It  mayn't  be 
all  that  you  think  it  is." 

"Oh,  but  I  have  seen  the  outside  of  the  house,  and 
one  knows  what  to  expect.  I  mean,  if  you  saw  the  out- 
side of  our  house  you'd  know  the  inside  was  pretty 
much  the  same  as  hundreds  of  others.  The  curtains 
always  give  you  away.  And  nearly  all  the  houses  on 
this  side  of  Thrigsby  are  like  yours.  When  I  was  at 
school  I  knew  a  girl  who  lived  next  door  to  you. 
And,  of  course,  I'm  excited  because  it  is — don't 
you  think — reassuring  when  you  are  fond  of  people 
to  know  that  they  have  relations  like  the  rest  of 
the  world." 

Rene's  shyness,  the  delicacy  of  his  feelings  had 
forced  upon  her  the  use  of  the  phrase,  "fond  of  each 
other."  For  all  the  excitement  she  had  roused  in  him 
he  had  never  become  possessive  nor  made  any  attempt 
to  assert  a  monopoly.  And  one  evening  when  she  had 
flirted  with  M'Elroy  at  the  tennis  club  he  had  left  her 
to  it,  apparently  not  at  all  distressed,  and  subsequently 
he  visited  on  her  none  of  the  jealousy  she  had  ex- 

90 


INTIMACY 

pected.  With  M'Elroy  her  relationship  had  become 
nothing  but  jealousy,  and  she  preferred  Rene's  diffi- 
dence to  that.  And  also,  as  she  had  shaped  Rene  out- 
wardly, so  inwardly  she  hoped  to  mold  him  to  hep 
liking.  M'Elroy  was  too  conceited  for  that. 

"I  promise  you  I  shan't  be  disappointed,"  she  said. 

"I  want  to  ask  you  not  to  mind  anything  my  father 
may  say.  He  does  talk  so.  I  hoped  he  would  not  be 
in." 

"You  dear  silly,  I  shan't  mind  anything.  I  shall  like 
it.  I  want  to  see  how  you  live,  and  if  I  don't  like  any- 
thing it  will  only  be  the  more  wonderful  that  you  are 
you." 

He  gripped  her  arm  very  tight.  She  laughed  though 
he  hurt  her.  It  was  the  first  uninvited  caress  he  had 
given  her. 

"You  are  so  strong,"  she  said,  and  she  took  his  arm 
and  did  not  relinquish  it  until  they  came  to  the  gate 
of  166. 

To  his  dismay  Rene  found  Elsie  with  his  father  and 
mother.  She  declared  that  she  had  only  dropped  in, 
but  she  was  arrayed  in  her  most  garish  best  and  had 
put  on  her  primmest  and  most  artificial  manner,  talking 
mincingly  like  a  chorus  girl.  And  she  patronized 
Linda,  swaggered  over  her  as  the  married  woman, 
chattered  about  her  darling  baby,  and  made  the  party 
so  uncomfortable  that  Linda  could  not  hold  her  own, 
and  a  gloom  would  have  descended  on  them  had  not 
Mr.  Fourmy  come  to  the  rescue  and  told  droll  stories, 
spiced  and  hot,  of  the  doings  of  women  in  various 
parts  of  the  wrorld.  He  cut  into  Elsie's  gushing  stories 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

with  the  story  of  the  marine  and  the  admiral's  French 
governess,  and  wound  up : 

"In  Brazil  the  women  eat  men.  No  half  measures. 
Eat  you  they  do.  Look  to  the  right  or  the  left  and 
they  knife  you.  What  I  can't  make  out,  Miss  Brock,  is 
why  any  men  stay  in  England." 

Linda  laughed  merrily. 

"Hardly  complimentary  to  us !  But  you  came  back, 
you  know." 

"So  I  did,  for  my  old  age.  England's  an  old  man's 
country." 

"You  won't  get  me  to  believe  that,  or  Rene  either." 

"Ah,  but  Rene  can't  see  things  as  they  are.  Short- 
sighted Rene  is.  And  George  is  blind;  isn't  he, 
Elsie?" 

Elsie  giggled.  She  had  been  wanting  to  giggle  for 
some  time,  and  the  appeal  to  her  set  her  off.  She  could 
not  stop  herself. 

"Oh!  Lor'!"  she  gasped,  "you  are  funny,  Mr.  Four- 
my.  You  ought  to  be  in  a  pantomime.  I  never  laugh 
like  I  do  with  you." 

And  once  more  Elsie  dominated  the  party.  Rene 
wilted.  Linda  drank  the  many  cups  of  tea  pressed  on 
her  by  Mrs.  Fourmy  in  her  nervous  anxiety.  Conver- 
sation flagged,  sputtered,  and  Mr.  Fourmy  in  despera- 
tion kept  Elsie  giggling  with  familiar  jokes.  Linda 
laughed  at  them  too,  and  Rene  sank  into  gloom  and  his 
mother  watched  him  anxiously. 

At  five  o'clock  Elsie  gave  a  little  scream  and  said  she 
must  hurry  away  to  see  that  the  servant  (she  had  no 
servant)  had  made  George's  tea.  She  hurried  away, 

92 


INTIMACY 

and  then,  relieved  of  the  oppression  of  her  presence, 
Rene  was  just  beginning  to  hope  for  better  things  when 
Linda,  to  escape  from  the  table,  asked  if  she  might 
see  the  picture  on  the  easel  in  the  corner  of  the  room. 
Delighted,  Mr.  Fourmy  turned  the  picture  to  the 
light.  Linda  bit  her  lip  and  a  dimple  came  in  her 
cheek. 

"Not  bad  for  an  amateur,"  said  Mr.  Fourmy.  "Just 
the  lid  of  a  cigar-box  and  a  little  paint.  I  never  did 
care  about  anything  but  the  figure." 

He  took  the  picture  up  and  looked  at  it  lovingly, 
and  with  pride  and  in  a  queer  confidential  voice  that 
startled  Rene  and  stung  Mrs.  Fourmy  into  a  sudden 
attention,  he  said: 

"You  can  understand  an  old  man  liking  to  do  some- 
thing with  his  hands,  and  it's  strange  how,  when  I  paint 
a  little  bit  like  that"— he  pointed  to  the  hip — "it 
brings  back  wonderful  moments  I  have  had  and  rare 
pleasures,  not  just  in  remembering,  but  as  they  were — 
wonderful!" 

"I  think  so,"  said  Linda  with  unwonted  simplicity, 
and  Mr.  Fourmy  took  her  hand,  stooped  over  it,  and 
kissed  it. 

Rene  looked  at  his  mother,  she  at  him,  and  Linda, 
turning  to  Mrs.  Fourmy,  smiled  and  said : 

"I  am  so  glad  to  have  come,  Mrs.  Fourmy.  Rene 
and  I  are  such  friends.  We  have  such  great  hopes  for 
him  and  I  wanted  to  see  you.  Will  you  take  me  home, 
Rene?" 

Mr.  Fourmy  opened  the  door  of  the  room  for  her, 
hurried  ahead  to  open  the  front  door,  and  with  a  tre- 

93 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

mendous  dignity,  bowed  again  over  Linda's  hand, 
thanked  her  for  coming,  and  said : 

"May  life  be  good  to  you,  and  very  amusing." 

And  Linda  answered : 

"I'd  like  to  buy  your  picture,  Mr.  Fourmy.  Will 
you  send  it  to  me  when  it  is  finished  ?" 

"I  would  rather  give  it  to  you." 

Rene's  horror  sent  him  flying  down  to  the  gate.  It 
was  a  minute  or  two  before  Linda  came.  She  was  smil- 
ing, and  Mr.  Fourmy  had  come  out  on  to  the  door- 
step to  watch  her  walk  down.  Rene  saw  his  eyes  fol- 
low her  and  appreciate  her  movements,  and  he  became 
acutely,  alarmingly  conscious  that  she  also  was  a 
woman.  He  was  frightened  of  her  as  she  came  up  to 
him,  but  he  was  also  angry,  and  he  let  fly: 

"Linda,  you  can't." 

"Can't  what?" 

"You  can't  let  my  father  give  you  his  beastly  pic- 
ture. You  didn't  seem  to  mind.  I  thought  you  would. 
I  thought  you  would.  He  sits  all  day  doing  those 
things  over  and  over  again." 

"Oh,  Rene,  don't  be  silly.    I'm  older  than  you." 

That  was  the  first  he  had  heard  of  it,  and  it  dashed 
him.  That  a  man  should  love,  could  love  a  woman 
older  than  himself  was  in  flat  contradiction  to  all  his 
notions.  He  was  furious.  Linda  went  on : 

"Two  years  older.  Twenty  years  older  in  experi- 
ence and  knowledge.  You  think  like  a  silly  little  boy." 

In  a  rage  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  left  her.  But 
at  once  a  fierce  hunger  to  be  with  her  seized  him,  to 
clutch  her  by  the  arm  as  he  had  clutched  her  before, 

94 


INTIMACY 

and  to  hurt  her  more,  to  feel  her  soft  flesh  yielding 
under  his  grip.  That  desire  was  stronger  than  his  fury, 
and  he  ran  after  her,  and  caught  her  up  just  at  the 
gates  of  Potter's  Park. 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  do  beg 
your  pardon.  I  can't  help  it.  I  must  be  with  you." 

And  he  seized  her  arm  and  rushed  her  ahead  for  a 
few  paces  until  she  cried  out  at  the  hurt: 

"Rene!     Rene!    Quiet!    Not  now!    Wait!" 

She  was  as  excited  as  he,  but  not,  like  him,  absorbed 
in  her  excitement.  It  was  a  delight  to  her. 

He  released  her,  and  she  led  him  to  a  seat  opposite 
a  bed  of  Darwin  tulips,  red  and  mauve  and  yellow.  He 
sat  by  her  side  trembling,  drowning  in  a  flood  of  sav- 
age emotion,  thinking  not  at  all.  Slowly  he  became 
aware  of  the  tulips  in  front  of  him,  and  he  said : 

"The  flowers  are  very  pretty." 

That  relaxed  the  tension  he  was  in,  and  he  stretched 
out  his  legs  and  stared  up  into  the  sky,  and  presently 
he  broke  into  words : 

"And  the  summer  sky  is  beautiful,  but  not  so  beauti- 
ful as  you,  and  I  love  you." 

His  arms  were  folded  on  his  chest,  and  he  seemed  to 
be  hardly  conscious  of  his  words  Then  in  a  calmer 
voice  he  said : 

"I  never  noticed  before  how  the  sky  is  always  chang- 
ing and  moving  and  alive.  I  would  like  to  sit  like  this 
until  it  all  grows  dark  and  the  stars  come  out  and  the 
glow  of  the  lights  of  the  town  goes  up  into  it?  And, 
Linda,  it  has  all  become  very  different,  hasn't  it?" 

She  said: 

95 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"I  knew  it  would  come." 

Then  they  laughed  together,  and  Rene  clapped  his 
hand  on  her  knee  and  told  her  she  was  a  wonderful 
darling. 

Linda  observed  then  that  they  had  begun  to  attract 
attention,  and  she  rose  and  walked  quickly  away.  He 
followed  her  slowly,  thrilling  to  the  present,  seeing 
nothing  in  the  world  but  her  brave  little  figure  in  mus- 
lin with  the  tip-tilted  hat.  Her  hair  was  golden  in  the 
sun,  and  her  neck  was  white  and  the  lines  of  her  shoul- 
ders were  lovely.  Rene  touched  her  lightly  as  he  came 
up  with  her. 

"We're  going  to  be  married,"  he  said. 

"Yes." 

"Isn't  it  fun?" 

Her  answer  struck  him  as  amusing  and  he  laughed. 
She  asked: 

"Is  Elsie  better  in  her  own  house?" 

"Oh,  she's  a  good  sort,  really,  and  George — that's 
my  brother — George  couldn't  have  done  better." 

"I  have  an  idea  from  the  way  you  speak  that  I  shall 
rather  like  George." 

"I  didn't  say  anything  to  show  I  like  him." 

"No,  darling."  (Rene's  heart  leaped  at  the  word.) 
"No.  I  think  you  dislike  him.  You  hate  your  father. 
He  is  impossible,  but  such  a  dear." 

Rene,  sensitive  in  his  ecstasy,  for  the  tulips  and  the 
sky  and  she  had  brought  him  to  nothing  less,  felt  a 
malice  in  her  that  scratched  at  his  heart.  But,  loving 
her,  worshiping  the  new  radiant  intimacy  that  had 
sprung  up  between  them,  he  loved  even  her  malice. 

96 


INTIMACY 

They  walked  home  slowly,  laughing  over  the  mis- 
chances, the  absurdity  of  the  tea-party,  and  when  they 
reached  her  house  she  made  him  come  in,  played  to  him 
for  an  hour,  and  sent  him  home  drunk  with  love.  He 
called  it  love,  for  he  suspected  not  that  it  could  have 
any  other  name.  She  had  promised  to  marry  him  as 
soon  as  he  had  his  degree  and  a  position,  and  he  was  to 
write  to  her  mother  and  make  a  formal  proposal,  since 
Mrs.  Brock  was  old-fashioned  enough  and  German 
enough  to  desire  that  much  of  formal  ceremony. 


IX 

PATERFAMILIAS 

The  foolish  man  thereat  woxe  wondrous  blith 
As  if  the  word  so  spoken  were  half  donne. 

SO  far  Rene's  success  had  come  from  his  power  to 
do  what  had  been  expected  of  him.  He  had  done 
it  without  delight  or  enthusiasm  but  with  the  con- 
centration which  came  from  his  lack  of  interest  either 
in  the  past  or  the  future.  From  the  interest  of  others 
in  himself  he  had  been  able  to  borrow  a  little  excite- 
ment every  now  and  then,  but  he  could  never  sustain  it. 
It  was  not  lack  of  energy,  mental  or  physical,  but 
rather  that,  doing  what  was  expected  of  him,  he  did  it 
well  enough  to  lead  to  further  expectation,  and  this 
gave  him  a  constant  surprise  at  himself  to  keep  his 
existence  zestful.  He  was  not  altogether  indifferent, 
but  he  could  accept.  He  accepted  that  Linda  loved 
him,  and  was  equally  prepared  to  accept  that  she  loved 
him  no  longer,  subject,  of  course,  to  any  incidental 
pain  he  might  suffer.  Believing  in  everything  that 
happened  with  no  power  of  definition  or  intellectual 
curiosity,  he  could  never  at  any  given  moment  realize 
his  position  without  reference  to  others,  and  therefore, 
when  he  found  himself  embroiled  in  this  tender,  dis- 

98 


PATERFAMILIAS 

turbing  relationship  with  Linda  Brock,  he  needed  to 
bring  it  to  the  test  of  all  his  other  relationships — with 
his  father,  his  mother,  his  brother,  M'Elroy,  Kurt,  and 
Professor  and  Mrs.  Smallman.  He  could  not  talk 
about  it  to  any  of  them,  but  he  hoped  to  find  in  all  some 
appreciation  of  the  new  wonder  that  had  come  upon 
him,  and  he  desired,  for  his  comfort,  to  find  out  what 
in  this  new  development  was  expected  of  him.  Here 
he  was  baffled.  Everybody  was  either  tactful  or  in- 
sensible. Things  inanimate  had  changed  enormously 
for  him.  Streets,  houses,  trees,  had  taken  on  a  new 
beauty,  a  friendliness  that  made  room  for  his  emotions ; 
but  people  lagged  distressfully,  and  he  often  had  an 
unhappy  sense  of  leaving  them  behind,  or,  as  he  talked 
and  listened  to  them,  they  would  dwindle.  And  yet, 
at  the  same  time,  he  found  them  so  wonderful  that, 
in  their  failure  to  respond  to  his  need,  they  seemed  to 
him  to  be  untrue  to  their  own  wonder.  He  knew  not 
the  nature  of  his  need,  but  he  was  left  subtly  conscious 
of  its  being  left  unsatisfied.  He  ascribed  his  discomfort 
to  his  love,  and  called  it  "being  in  love."  It  gave  him 
an  insatiable  desire  for  Linda's  society,  presence,  con- 
tact ;  a  harsh  sensibility  to  her  beauty ;  an  appreciation 
of  her  physical  qualities  upon  which  he  never  dared  to 
think,  because  it  led  him  back  in  thought  to  the  moment 
of  her  colloquy  with  his  father  when  he  had  felt  so 
strangely  that  he  and  his  mother  were  not  of  their 
world.  In  this  distress  his  mind  could  find  ease  in  the 
idea  of  marriage.  That  settled  the  future  and  ap- 
pointed an  end  to  the  force  that  urged  him  on  so  mys- 
teriously and  powerfully ;  but,  accustomed  as  he  was  to 

99 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

living  humbly  in  the  present,  he  needed  somehow  to 
escape  the  isolation  into  which  the  desire  for  Linda 
had  cast  him.  He  worked  harder  than  he  had  ever 
done,  but  when  he  was  not  working,  and  issued  from 
the  coolness  of  that  limited  mental  activity,  he  was 
visited  by  a  craving  that  not  even  Linda  could  slake. 
He  found  most  comfort  in  children  and  the  idea  of 
children.  He  would  go  and  see  Mrs.  Smallman,  and 
sit  with  her  in  the  garden  and  silently  watch  Martin 
and  Bridget  playing  over  the  meager  lawn  under  the 
plum-tree.  He  would  talk  to  Mrs.  Smallman  about 
indifferent  things,  and  go  sick  at  heart  as  he  saw  how 
her  eyes  and  mind  were  upon  the  children,  how  little 
occupied  with  himself,  and  how  rigidly  she  kept  him 
from  that  mystery  which  he  desired  to  comprehend. 
Again  he  would  play  with  the  children  with  an  admir- 
able success,  so  that  they  would  admit  him  as  one  of 
themselves,  only  as  he  emerged  from  the  game  to  be 
met  with  an  applauding  smile  from  the  charming  lady, 
which  made  him  feel  that  she  admired  his  perform- 
ance but  could  not  herself  admit  him.  She  was 
friendly  and  amiable,  and  would  ask  him  to  come 
again;  and  he  would  hear  from  Linda  how  well  Mrs. 
Smallman  thought  of  him — "Such  a  nice  boy,  and  so 
fond  of  children" — but  she  kept  him  separate.  He 
tried  once  or  twice  to  tell  Mrs.  Smallman  about  Linda. 
"She  is  such  a  clever  girl,"  she  would  say.  "A  good 
musician,  of  course.  My  husband  says  she  could  take 
a  first  easily  in  almost  any  subject.  I  am  sure  she  will 
make  a  good  wife,  just  the  kind  of  girl  to  make  a  man 
successful.  We  have  often  been  surprised  that  she 

100 


PATERFAMILIAS 

has  not  married  before,  but  of  course  she  is  a  girl  who 
could  only  live  happily  with  a  good  brain.  It  does 
make  such  a  difference." 

Everything  she  said  led  back  to  her  own  bliss  and 
exceptional  fortune;  and  while  Rene  gave  her  due 
homage  for  her  motherhood,  her  wifedom,  her  gra- 
cious happy  home,  yet  he  came  almost  to  hate  these 
things  without  knowing  that  it  was  because  they  were 
securely  barred  in.  Yet  he  could  not  keep  away  nor 
refrain  from  his  attempts  to  storm  the  citadel. 

He  would  try  through  Smallman,  who  was  even 
more  exasperating.  He  seemed  to  divine  that  his  pupil 
was  groping  after  some  reassurance  of  human  beauty, 
but  he  would  hint  darkly  at  the  difficulties  of  married 
life,  generalize  about  the  simplicity  of  human  needs, 
whisper  of  the  revelation  of  fatherhood,  and,  just  as 
he  had  Rene  sitting  forward  in  excited  anticipation  of 
the  longed-for  marvel,  he  would  double  and  turn  aside 
into  the  discussion  of  economic  problems,  or  the  un- 
satisfactory nature  of  the  academic  life  in  Thrigsby. 
And  then,  with  the  children,  Rene  would  see  that 
Smallman  could  never  enter  into  their  games  or  their 
minds  as  thoroughly  as  himself. 

On  the  whole  he  preferred  George's  gross  swagger- 
ing over  his  paternity,  and  there  was  a  sure  satisfaction 
in  watching  his  sister-in-law  suckle  her  baby.  But 
there  again  George  and  his  wife  took  upon  themselves 
an  excessive  credit  for  the  achievement,  hoarded  it,  in- 
vested it  in  everybody  whom  they  could  get  to  take  it, 
seeming  to  use  the  child  as  a  means  of  gaining  admira- 
tion for  themselves.  They  seemed  to  be  incapable  of 

101 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

recovering  from  the  astonishment  of  anything  so  nat- 
ural happening  to  themselves,  and  they  too,  a  little 
more  exuberantly  and  less  charmingly,  barred  Rene 
out. 

"By  Jove !"  George  would  say,  "there  is  nothing  like 
it.  It's  wonderful  what  you  can  do  without  when 
you've  got  that.  And,  as  I  was  saying  to  Elsie,  I  can't 
make  out  what  swells  do  who  have  a  nurse.  I  can't 
tell  you  how  jolly  glad  I  was  when  the  monthly  went 
and  we  could  have  it  all  to  ourselves." 

To  Rene  George  was  so  horrible  when  he  talked  so, 
that  he  would  forget  the  sentimental  satisfaction  he 
had  had  in  the  contemplation  of  the  change  wrought 
in  the  household  by  the  advent  of  his  nephew. 

"And  imagine,"  George  said  once,  "that  one  never 
thinks  of  it.  You  get  making  love  and  all  that.  Just 
a  bit  o'  fun,  as  likely  as  not,  and  it  leads  to  this.  By 
God,  it's  a  big  thing.  Hark  at  the  little  beggar.  I  tell 
you,  Rene,  my  heart  sometimes  stops  with  fright  when 
a  long  time  goes  by  and  he  doesn't  howl.  Oh,  well, 
your  day  will  come.  It'll  come,  all  right.  Don't  you 
worry !" 

In  desperation  Rene  led  the  conversation  elsewhere. 

And  at  home  things  were  hardly  better.  He  felt 
that  his  mother  did  not  like  Linda,  though  she  showed 
no  reluctance  to  talk  of  her,  or  indeed  to  praise  her. 
Perhaps  Linda  had  frightened  her.  And  sometimes 
Rene  would  feel  that  his  mother  had  a  real  horror  of 
love  and  marriage  and  all  but  the  most  superficial  and 
sentimental  relations  of  the  sexes.  He  would  wonder 
how  that  could  be  reconciled  with  her  reception  of  his 

1 02 


PATERFAMILIAS 

father  or  her  excited  business  before  the  coming  of 
Elsie's  baby.  She  was  often  disconcertingly  silent 
when  he  came  home  from  some  employment  with 
Linda,  and  he  learned  that  he  must  not  tell  her  what 
he  had  been  doing. 

Sometimes  she  would  begin  of  her  own  accord  to 
talk  of  Linda : 

"She  has  such  eyes.  She  sees  everything.  You  feel 
she  knows  every  stitch  of  clothing  you  have  on.  And 
the  things  she  wears  herself —  Well!  But  she's  very 
pleasant  and  she's  got  a  pretty  smile.  Girls  were  very 
different  in  my  day." 

"How  were  they  different?"  Rene  would  ask. 

"I  don't  know.  Different.  I  can't  say.  We  were 
more  patient.  There  were  some  things  we  didn't  talk 
of.  But,  of  course,  she's  not  English.  That  would 
account  for  a  good  deal.  If  you  weren't  so  set  on  her 
I  should  say  she  was  making  a  fool  of  herself.  Girls 
often  do,  you  know,  with  a  sort  of  man  they've  not 
been  used  to.  But  I  will  say  this  for  you,  Rene,  you're 
not  one  not  to  take  a  girl  seriously." 

Rene  looked  puzzled.    His  mother  laughed. 

"Go  on,  you  great  gaby;  don't  tell  me  you  don't 
know  what  you  can  do  with  those  eyes  of  yours." 

This  annoyed  him  with  its  suggestion  of  a  deliberate 
manipulation  on  his  part  of  the  springs  of  affection. 

"Oh,  mother,"  he  said,  "you've  been  so  different 
since  my  father  came  back,  and  I'm  different,  and 
everything  seems  to  be  changing  so  swiftly  that  it  is 
hard  to  tell — hard  to  tell  where  we  are.  We  seem  so 
far  away  from  the  old  life,  just  you  and  I  together." 

103 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

Mrs.  Fourmy  looked  at  him  and  replied : 

"You  remind  me  of  the  times  when  you  were  a  little 
boy  and  used  to  sit  with  an  ashen  face,  very  thin,  with 
the  tears  rolling  down  your  cheeks.  And  when  I  asked 
you  what  was  the  matter  you  used  to  say :  Tm  heavy/ 
You  weren't  like  an  ordinary  boy.  You  seemed  to  feel 
things." 

"I  seem  to  feel  things  now,"  he  said  miserably; 
"but  I  don't  know  what  things  they  are."  Then,  en- 
couraged by  the  warm  interest  he  felt  in  her,  he  added  : 
"But  I  can't  want  not  to  feel."  And,  daring  a  stroke 
against  the  new  baleful  influence  at  work  in  the  house, 
he  told  her  of  his  recollection  of  the  scene  in  the  bed- 
room when  she  had  spanked  his  father. 

"Well  now,"  she  said,  "to  think  of  your  remember- 
ing that." 

"It  made  all  the  difference,"  said  he,  "all  the  differ- 
ence in  the  world." 

"Oh,  you  poor  mite,"  cried  his  mother;  "and  you 
couldn't  see  it  was  in  fun?" 

"Fun !"    He  looked  incredulous. 

"Yes.    We  were  very  happy  then." 

He  pounced  eagerly  on  that. 

"Happy?  Were  you  happy?  And  now?  And 
now?" 

That  was  coming  to  closer  quarters  than  she  had 
courage  for.  She  sank  into  indifference. 

"We're  old  now,"  she  said,  and  he  felt  that  she  too 
had  barred  him  out.  She  also  may  have  felt  it,  for 
she  shifted  uncomfortably  and  led  the  talk  away  from 
herself  and  presently  to  praise  of  his  father. 

104 


PATERFAMILIAS 

"He  was  too  clever,"  she  said,  "and  I  couldn't  see 
how  clever  he  was.  I  wanted  him  to  beat  his  brothers 
in  their  own  line,  and  I  wanted  him  to  love  you  two 
boys  in  my  way  instead  of  his.  Of  course  I'm  not 
clever,  Rene,  and  I  can't  say  where  things  got  wrong. 
It's  wonderful  how  he's  settled  down  now.  I  never 
thought  he  would.  And  I  want  you  to  be  nice  to  him, 
Rene,  for  my  sake.  Even  if  you're  not  going  to  be 
here  much  longer,  I  would  like  you  to  do  that.  He 
feels  his  position  so." 

The  sting  of  indignation  pricked  Rene  into  brutality. 
He  had  made  his  effort  to  reclaim  his  mother  from  his 
father,  and  failed.  He  cried : 

"What  did  he  do?" 

"What  do  men  do  when  dullness  creeps  over  them 
and  they  are  mortified  with  failure?" 
.  There  was  a  note  of  vengeance  in  her  tone,  exas- 
peration perhaps,  a  savage  determination  to  set  abomi- 
nations before  the  fatuous  innocence  of  her  son.  She 
succeeded.  He  was  beset  with  horrors  and  a  sick 
repulsion  from  his  mother  who  could  allow,  accept, 
and  seem  to  rejoice  in  such  contamination. 

Drearily  he  said : 

"He's  a  dirty  man,"  and  upon  that  expression  of 
opinion  he  left  her. 

However  he  did  attempt  to  be  more  amiable  with  his 
father,  and  even  went  so  far  as  to  accompany  him  to 
the  Denmark  of  an  evening,  and  was  there  astonished 
to  find  how  the  old  fellow  by  sheer  wit  and  masterful 
presence  lorded  it  over  the  company  of  clerks,  shop- 

105 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

keepers,  theater  musicians,  agents,  brokers,  bagmen, 
school  teachers,  the  odd  characters,  the  small  talents  of 
the  neighborhood.  Rene  noticed  that  Mr.  Sherman 
plied  his  father  with  drink  to  keep  him  lively,  and  that 
there  seemed  no  question  of  payment  for  it.  Mr. 
Fourmy  paid  in  talk,  yarns,  jests,  jokes,  impromptu 
fantasies,  with  sly  hits  at  the  eccentrics  of  the  assembly. 
And  although  Rene  hated  the  atmosphere,  the  smoke, 
the  drink,  the  greedy  lapping  up  of  gross  laughter,  the 
pouncing  on  scraps  of  filth  and  equivocal  utterances,  he 
could  not  escape  some  admiration  of  his  father.  This 
grew  as  they  left  the  place  and  Mr.  Fourmy  shook  off 
his  air  of  large  geniality  and  took  his  son  by  the  arm 
and  asked  if  they  might  go  for  a  walk  together. 

"To  think,"  he  said,  "of  your  remembering  a  thing 
like  that.  And  it  did  make  a  change  too.  You  used  to 
come  running  down  the  road  to  meet  me  when  I  came 
back  from  town.  You  stopped  doing  that.  I  noticed 
it  once  or  twice,  and  then  I  gave  no  more  heed  to  it. 
I  never  was  much  of  a  one  to  give  heed  to  things. 
Can't  stand  things  dull.  Never  could.  I  couldn't  do 
what  you're  doing  now,  plodding  away  with  those  fat 
books  of  yours.  It  seems  wonderful  to  me.  I  looked 
into  one  of  them  the  other  day.  No.  I  never  had  the 
mind  for  it." 

"Father,"  said  Rene  solemnly,  "when  I  was  born, 
what  did  you  feel  like?" 

"Lord  love  a  duck!  What  a  question!  I'd  been 
expecting  it,  you  know.  And  George  was  there,  you 
know.  But  I'll  tell  you  this,  my  lad.  A  child's  won- 
derfully separate  at  once,  and  no  amount  of  clucking 

106 


PATERFAMILIAS 

will  ever  make  it  anything  else.  It's  got  its  own  sepa- 
rate life  like  the  rest  of  us.  We're  all  separate,  and  it's 
just  as  well  not  to  forget  it.  We're  never  allowed  to 
forget  it  for  long.  I  forgot  it.  I  thought  we  were  a 
nice  little  happy  family  with  no  individuals  in  it  at 
all — except  myself.  And  then " 

"What  then?" 

"Then,  my  son,  there  was  a  nasty  mess." 

"Oh!" 

"There  always  is  a  nasty  mess.  Marriage  knocks  a 
man  to  pieces  and  leaves  him  to  put  himself  together 
again.  Women  are  more  brutal.  They  don't  mind  if 
marriage  turns  out  to  be  no  more  than  a  pool  of  mud. 
Lord,  Lord!  a  woman  will  bear  a  child  almost  every 
year  of  her  bearing  life  and  be  no  more  than  a  little 
girl  at  the  end  of  it,  a  prying,  stealthy-minded  little 
girl." 

Rene  was  enraged  and  shocked,  but  excited  too,  in- 
tellectually. He  turned  to  his  father  and  said: 

"Father,  I  want  to  know,  I  must  know,  how  you 
could  come  back  to  my  mother." 

"That,"  said  Mr.  Fourmy,  "is  what  I  am  still  asking 
myself." 

Rene  swung  round  and  struck  his  father  full  on  the 
mouth,  thrilled  sickeningly  to  the  impact  and  raised  his 
hand  to  strike  again.  Mr.  Fourmy  caught  him  by  the 
wrist  and  dragged  him  up  so  that  their  faces  were  close 
together,  both  breathing  heavily: 

"Steady,"  whispered  the  older  man,  "steady !  steady 
on,  boy.  It's  the  women  bitching  at  you  got  into  your 
blood.  You're  a  good  boy,  a  virtuous  boy.  Things 

107 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

are  hard  for  virtue.  Listen  to  me.  Do  you  hear?" 
Rene  nodded.  "Very  well  then.  Life's  a  damn  dirty 
business,  and  it  grows  damneder  and  damneder  as  time 
goes  on.  It  got  so  damned  for  me  that  I  cleared  out. 
See?"  Rene  nodded.  "I  cleared  out  till  I  could  see 
that  it  was  damn  funny.  Then  I  came  back.  It  was 
grinding  me  as  it  is  grinding  you." 

He  patted  his  son's  arm  so  affectionately  that  Rene 
choked  and  the  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks. 

They  walked  on,  Rene  lurching,  until  his  father  took 
his  arm  again  and  led  him.  There  was  a  moon  over 
them,  and  as  he  led,  Mr.  Fourmy  said: 

"On  a  night  like  this  even  Thrigsby  is  beautiful. 
Lord!  How  I  used  to  hate  the  place.  But  when  I 
had  seen  things  I  came  to  know  that  it  is  like  any 
other.  There  are  good  men  in  it  and  good  things,  and 
over  all  the  same  slime  of  meanness  and  fear  that  only 
very  few  can  penetrate.  We  live  in  a  world  of  women, 
boy,  and  we  must  make  the  best  of  it." 

Rene  hardly  heard  him,  but  he  could  feel  the  pres- 
sure of  his  hand  and  was  glad  that  here,  at  last,  was 
one  nature  that  did  not  bar  him  out.  It  was  so  aston- 
ishing as  to  be  repellent,  but  he  was  so  hungry  for 
comfort  that  he  could  not  withdraw. 


X 

HONEYMOON 

That  God  forbid  that  made  me  first  your  slave 
I  should  in  thought  control  your  times  of  pleasure. 

MRS.  BROCK  granted  Rene  an  interview.  From 
the  worldly  standpoint  it  was  satisfactory.  No 
great  objection  to  the  projected  alliance  was  made,  and 
he  learned  that  Linda  had  a  fortune  of  her  own  which 
provided  her  with  an  income  of  seven  hundred  a 
year.  If  anything,  he  was  distressed  by  the  informa- 
tion. He  did  not  regard  money  as  in  itself  desirable. 
The  lack  of  it  was  a  nuisance  to  be  avoided  if  possible, 
but  not  otherwise  to  be  considered.  The  past  year  had 
led  him  to  believe  that  such  a  lack  was  easily  repaired. 
It  was  disturbing  to  the  few  ideas  he  had  on  the  sub- 
ject to  think  that  he  would  not  be  able  to  satisfy  any 
desires  in  his  beloved  which  she  could  not  herself  sup- 
ply. However  that  did  not  occupy  him  long,  for  he 
was  comforted  by  Mrs.  Brock's  explaining  that  she  had 
discussed  the  matter  with  her  daughter — a  good,  sensi- 
ble maiden,  who  admitted  that  there  was  a  practical 
side  even  to  romance — and  they  had  agreed  to  postpone 
the  marriage  until  Mr.  Fourmy  was  settled  in  a  pro- 
fession. To  make  this  easier,  Linda  had  consented  to 

109 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

go  to  her  relatives  in  Hamburg  for  an  indefinite  period, 
though,  of  course,  she  would  go  there  as  a  betrothed. 

He  said: 

"Thank  you  very  much,  Mrs.  Brock." 

He  tried  to  say  more,  to  remove  the  affair  from  the 
hard,  business  footing  on  which  it  had  been  conducted, 
to  lead  his  prospective  mother-in-law  to  give  him  some 
sign  that  she  regarded  him  as  a  potential  member  of 
her  family,  but  she  suppressed  him  by  saying: 

"Frankly,  Mr.  Fourmy,  I  don't  think  it  would  be 
wise  of  you  to  marry  with  my  daughter  unless  you 
have  at  least  three  hundred  a  year." 

He  agreed  and  withdrew,  chilled  at  the  heart.  It 
seemed  to  end  his  wooing  and  to  give  him  already  a 
slight  distaste  for  Linda.  Could  she  really  have  dis- 
cussed the  matter  so  coolly  with  her  solid  mother? 
It  was  a  shock  to  him  that  women  from  whom  came 
such  great  ecstasy  were  not  themselves  all  compact  of 
that  fiery  essence.  And  seven  hundred  a  year !  That 
seemed  more  present  to  the  mind  of  the  mother  than 
the  girl  herself.  Seven  hundred  a  year  was  to  be  sent 
to  Germany  until  he  had  grown  into  three  hundred  a 
year. 

However,  Linda  immensely  enjoyed  the  process  of 
parting.  She  began  it  on  the  Sunday,  and  carried  it 
through  till  the  Friday,  when  she  was  to  sail  from 
Hull,  and  she  left  her  betrothed,  sad,  aching,  but  obsti- 
nately hopeful.  On  the  Tuesday  she  said : 

"You  have  changed  my  whole  life.  I  was  drifting. 
I  was  trying  to  take  in  too  many  things.  You  have 
made  me  see." 

no 


HONEYMOON 

"What?"  asked  Rene  very  seriously.  He  was 
anxious  to  know. 

"Just  see,"  she  replied. 

He  was  left  uncomfortably  in  his  own  limited  world, 
feeling  that  she  had  shot  off  into  regions  to  which  he 
could  not  follow  her.  He  ought  to  have  been  accus- 
tomed to  that  by  now,  but  he  could  not  be.  She  was 
always  hinting  at  the  wonderful  things  she  got  out  of 
him,  but  as  he  was  never  conscious  of  them,  he  could 
not  understand  her.  He  used  to  tell  himself  that  it 
was  her  queer  roundabout  way  of  delighting  in  her 
love  for  him. 

On  the  Thursday  she  said: 

"You  know,  Rene,  at  such  a  distance  we  shall  be 
able  to  get  our  ideas  of  each  other  clear.  That  is  so 
necessary.  We  must  make  an  effort  to  understand 
each  other." 

"Isn't  it  enough  if  we  love  each  other?" 

"Oh  no.  That  only  means  making  allowances.  It 
isn't  enough  to  do  that.  I  get  frightened  sometimes 
when  I  think  of  all  the  people  who  are  married,  how 
little  they  understand  each  other." 

"Then  they're  married  without  loving  each  other." 

"I  think  I  see  what  you  mean,"  and  she  caught  his 
hand  and  pressed  it  to  her  bosom.  She  had  become 
much  more  demonstrative  in  these  days  of  parting.  He 
warmed  to  her  excitement  and  rushed  ahead : 

"People  who  love  each  other  are  married.  I've 
been  thinking  about  it.  If  people  love  each  other  they 
have  the  wonderful  mutual  knowledge  which  is  mar- 
riage. And  we  have  that,  haven't  we?" 

in 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"Oh,  wonderfully!" 

On  the  Friday  she  wept  and  would  not  be  consoled 
until  he  had  consented  to  go  to  Hull  with  her.  He  had 
an  engagement  for  the  day,  but  telegraphed  to  cancel  it 
and  went  with  her.  She  clung  to  him  on  the  boat,  and 
caused  him  almost  to  be  carried  away  from  the  pier. 
The  gangway  had  to  be  put  out  for  him,  and  he 
raced  ashore  and  stood  on  the  quay  waving  a  pocket- 
handkerchief  and  swallowing  his  tears  until  the  boat 
had  dipped  over  the  edge  of  the  sea. 

They  wrote  to  each  other,  every  day  at  first,  then 
every  other  day.  Her  letters  in  their  coolness  often 
stabbed  him,  but  he  could  not  bring  his  into  tone  with 
hers.  He  poured  out  everything  he  thought  and  felt 
without  calculation,  and  with  no  literary  pleasure  or 
excitement.  She  was  only  led  into  warm  confession 
when  some  phrase  lured  her  on.  Her  greatest  enthusi- 
asm was  when,  at  the  end  of  the  Academic  year,  he 
sent  her  the  examination  lists  with  his  name  at  the 
head,  and  also  as  having  won  the  Robert  Owen  prize 
and  a  studentship  of  eighty  pounds  a  year  for  three 
years. 

Indeed  his  university  career  ended  in  a  blaze  of 
glory.  Professor  Smallman  sent  for  him  and  assured 
him  that  on  his  papers  he  was  an  absolutely  first-class 
man,  and  the  university  could  not  afford  to  lose  him. 
Of  course  there  was  no  vacancy  as  yet,  and  the  teach- 
ing of  economics  was  a  miserably-paid  profession,  but 
in  the  meanwhile  he  could  procure  a  supernumerary 
post  on  the  staff  of  the  Grammar  School  which  would 

112 


HONEYMOON 

leave  him  free  to  take  up  any  appointment  that  cropped 
up.  He  could  also  continue  his  reviewing,  unless  he 
thought  of  going  on  to  Oxford  or  Cambridge,  when, 
of  course,  the  school  and  the  university  would  help 
him.  For  a  career,  a  degree  at  one  of  the  major  uni- 
versities was  almost  essential. 

"I  don't  mind  telling  you,"  said  the  Professor,  "that 
it  is  pretty  much  my  own  career  over  again,  though 
there  are  things  you  can  do  that  I  never  could.  You've 
more  imagination.  Cambridge  economics  are  very 
much  alive  just  now.  If  you  would  care  to " 

"I  must  make  an  income,"  said  Rene.  He  was 
elated,  but  also  disgruntled,  suffering  from  a  reaction. 
He  had  prepared  his  subject  for  the  examination,  and 
having  succeeded,  had  lost  interest  in  it.  Vaguely  he 
had  so  arranged  his  life  that  until  this  examination  he 
would  do  as  he  was  told  to  do,  so  that  after  it  he 
might  do  things  because  he  wanted  to  do  them.  On 
the  whole,  he  rather  resented  the  Professor's  continued 
interference  in  his  affairs.  However,  he  agreed  with 
the  first  plan.  Cambridge  meant  another  three  years 
preparing  for  another  examination,  and  he  was  Thrigs- 
beian  enough  to  feel  that  it  was  not  a  "man's  work." 

He  saw  the  Headmaster  on  the  morning  of  Speech 
day,  and  was  warmly  thanked  for  the  honor  he  had 
brought  to  the  school,  and  was  engaged  to  appear  on 
the  first  day  of  the  following  term.  Desiring  to  see  his 
old  form-master,  Mr.  Beenham,  he  went  to  his  room 
and  was  surprised  to  find  his  desk  empty  and  the  boys 
playing  cricket  with  a  German  Grammar  and  a  ball  of 
paper  tied  with  string.  As  he  left  the  school  he  asked 

"3 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

the  porter  after  Mr.  Beenham,  and  the  porter  told  him 
that  story.  It  upset  him.  Of  all  human  beings  he  had 
regarded  Old  Mole  as  the  least  human,  but  now  he  was 
desiring  to  exercise  his  released  intelligence,  his  power 
of  penetration,  his  imagination  upon  the  surrounding 
world.  All  his  faculties  had  been  concentrated  upon 
economics  as  a  means  to  an  end,  the  life  which  lay  be- 
yond examinations.  Professor  Smallman  and  the 
Headmaster  had  made  him  feel  that  the  life  beyond 
was  distressingly  like  the  life  before,  and  now  this 
disaster  to  Old  Mole  came  as  some  small  assurance 
that  there  were  adventures  though  they  might  be 
never  so  foolish.  The  Professor  had  mildly  alarmed 
his  pupil  by  pointing  out  the  similarity  of  their  careers. 
Admire  Smallman  as  he  might,  it  was  not  that  to 
which  Rene  wished  to  come.  It  was  not  that  he  had 
any  excitement  in  contemplating  the  future.  On  the 
contrary:  the  present  was  too  absorbing.  Everybody 
was  charming  to  him,  seemed  to  be  proud  of  him;  the 
rich  Fourmys  had  asked  him  to  their  houses — and  he 
had  refused.  He  found  himself  being  listened  to, 
respected,  given  the  right  to  have  views  and  opinions. 
He  had  neither,  and  was  too  honest  to  evolve  them 
for  the  occasion.  And  when  the  future  insisted  upon 
engaging  his  attention,  he  rilled  it  with  Linda  and  was 
happy. 

He  refused  to  go  to  Scotland,  half  despising  his 
memories  of  it. 

He  was  happy,  simply  engrossed  in  his  own  com- 
fortable sensations.  He  had  set  out  to  do  a  thing  and 
done  it  well,  better  even  than  he  or  anyone  else  had 

114 


HONEYMOON 

anticipated ;  he  was  in  love  and  engaged  to  be  married 
upon  the  condition  of  making  three  hundred  a  year. 
His  success  had  made  that  easily  possible ;  his  student- 
ship, one  hundred  and  fifty  from  the  school,  more 
from  the  Post,  possible  examination  papers,  lectures; 
his  hardly-won  book  knowledge  had  been  shaped  by 
his  reputation  into  a  marketable  commodity. 

But  his  real  happiness  lay  apart  from  all  these 
things,  from  success,  from  love,  from  the  easy  com- 
merce of  his  abilities.  Relieved  from  the  strain  and 
obsession  of  his  examination,  he  had  discovered  the 
wonderful  pleasure  to  be  got  from  the  mere  act  of 
living,  from  seeing  the  world  freshly  every  morning, 
from  passing  through  the  day  and  feeling  it  slip  away 
from  him  without  his  having  to  demand  of  it  any 
definite  profit  in  knowledge  or  money  earned.  It  was 
a  new  delight  with  him  just  to  watch  people,  a  joy 
that  had  remained  with  him  from  his  outburst  by  the 
tulips,  to  sit  and  gaze  at  flowers,  trees,  the  sky,  water. 
He  had  times  of  feeling  wonderfully  remote,  when 
the  habits  on  which  he  won  through  the  day  seemed 
ridiculous,  though  trivially  pleasurable.  In  this  mood 
he  would  sometimes  realize  with  a  start  that  it  was 
now  his  father  and  he  who  were  companions,  his 
mother  who  was  the  stranger.  And  he  would  bring 
himself  up  on  that  and  tell  himself  that  his  mother 
had  his  love  and  championship  if  any  were  needed. 
But  he  would  rejoice  in  his  father's  gusto  in  eating, 
drinking,  smoking,  painting,  talking,  all  that  the  queer 
man  did.  Against  that  too  he  would  react  and  tell 
himself  that  his  father  was  futile.  But  was  not  his 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

mother  futile  also?  And  was  not  futility  with  gusto 
the  better  of  the  two? 

He  was  too  happy  for  the  business  of  weighing  up 
between  his  father  and  his  mother,  too  absorbed  in  the 
glowing  introspection  to  which  he  had  been  brought; 
introspection  without  analysis;  a  brooding,  almost  a 
floating  over  faculties  in  himself  faintly  stirring, 
reaching  out  to  exercise  themselves  on  everything 
within  his  reach.  The  world  was  very  wonderful:  its 
possibilities  were  endless;  its  treasures  lay  immeasur- 
able only  for  the  stretching  out  of  his  hand ;  and  it  was 
a  delicious  pleasure  to  him  not  to  stretch  out  his  hand, 
but  to  know  that  one  day  he  need  but  make  a  gesture 
to  have  all  its  marvels  pouring  in  on  him.  That  those 
older  than  himself  had  but  a  small  share  of  them  dis- 
turbed him  not  at  all.  He  had  no  doubt  but  his  would 
be  the  infallible  gesture,  and,  without  conceit,  during 
this  happy  time,  he  cherished  a  firm  belief  in  his 
unique  quality. 

All  his  new  delights  were  expressed  in  his  letters  to 
Linda  in  Germany.  She  analyzed  them  for  him,  not 
always  accurately,  but  the  mental  process  was  new  and 
exciting  to  him,  and  he  began  to  appreciate  her  intel- 
lectual activity.  They  discussed  his  character  at  great 
length.  He  said:  "I  suppose  I  am,  or  have  been — 
for  I  often  find  myself  wanting  to  laugh  nowadays — 
too  serious."  She  replied :  "Not  too  serious,  my  dear. 
It  is  impossible  to  be  that  in  this  heartless  age.  (Oh! 
What  a  lot  you  can  learn  about  England  by  going 
abroad!)  Not  too  serious.  No.  What  you  lack,  I 
think,  is  power  of  observation.  What  you  must  realize 

116 


HONEYMOON 

is  that  things  have  a  surface  and  a  surface  value.  Of 
course  you  cannot  be  content  with  that  value,  but  you 
must  not  expect  surface  things  to  have  any  value  in 
the  region  of  profound  things,  the  region  in  which, 
poor  dear,  you  have  always  lived."  Faithfully  he  set 
about  cultivating  surface  values,  but  he  never  could 
laugh  at  things  that  were  just  amusing ;  he  never  could 
laugh  unless  he  were  moved  to  laughter.  He  was,  for 
instance,  baffled  and  made  sorry  by  the  family  jests 
which  left  George  and  Elsie  exhausted  by  their  noisy 
mirth. 

Kurt  Brock  persuaded  him  to  go  with  him  for  a  tour 
in  a  side-car  attached  to  his  motor-cycle.  Then  did 
Rene  become  swollen  and  puffed  up  with  the  glory  of 
the  world.  The  exuberant  boy  was  a  tonic  in  himself ; 
the  speed  he  maintained  was  intoxicating;  and  they 
burst  out  of  the  long  suburbs  of  Thrigsby  into  the 
Cheshire  plain,  over  to  the  sea,  the  Welsh  mountains, 
down  the  Severn  and  Wye  valleys.  To  Rene,  whose 
existence  for  so  many  years  had  lain  only  in  Thrigsby 
and  the  little  Scots  village,  it  was  being  shot  out  into 
life.  The  return  to  Thrigsby  made  him  miserable. 
Also  association  with  Kurt  had  pricked  the  small  bub- 
ble of  his  vanity.  Kurt,  so  hopeless  with  books,  was 
amazingly  efficient  with  his  machine,  equal  to  every 
emergency,  daring,  inexhaustible,  masterful.  He  had 
said  many  things  which  Rene  had  found  disturbing 
and  alarming.  The  boy  had  everything  so  cut  and 
dried;  no  room  in  his  life,  it  seemed,  for  folly,  cer- 
tainly none  for  brooding.  He  confessed  one  night,  as 

117 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

they  sat  sleepily  in  a  public-house  parlor,  that  he 
wanted  to  be  an  airman.  Rene  could  not  applaud  the 
ambition. 

"Hardly  fair  to  your  mother,  or,  suppose  you  were 
in  love,  to — well." 

"People  talk  a  lot  of  bally  rot  about  love.  They 
seem  to  think  it  means  bagging  a  woman  like  a  rabbit 
and  shutting  her  up  in  a  hutch  to  breed." 

"Well,"  said  Rene,  "marriage  does  mean  living  to- 
gether and  a  certain  amount  of  responsibility." 

"I  dunno.  I've  never  been  in  love,  but  I'm  not 
going  to  either,  unless  I  get  something  that  goes  off 
with  a  bang  and  lets  me  and  her  get  on  a  bit."  His 
mania  was  for  getting  on.  When  Rene  wanted  lunch, 
Kurt  would  hold  out  for  another  place  "only  twenty 
miles  on." 

Another  night  Rene  returned  to  the  subject  of 
women  and  love,  Kurt's  audacities  having  a  horrid 
fascination  for  him,  and  the  boy  said: 

"I  dunno,  but  if  a  woman  said  she  loved  me  and 
wouldn't  let  me  do  what  I  wanted  to  do  because  she 
said  she  loved  me,  I  should  know  she  was  a  liar." 

Rene  tried  to  point  out  that  life  and  love  were  not 
so  simple  as  all  that,  but  there  was  no  turning  Kurt. 
He  had  the  thing  worked  out  neatly  to  his  own  satis- 
faction, and  he  was  not  going  to  bother  his  head  about 
it  any  more. 

"Bad  enough,"  he  said,  "to  have  a  legal  speed  limit 
without  having  a  private  limit  in  the  home." 

A  letter  from  Linda  reached  Rene  at  one  of  their 
stopping-places.  She  declared  herself  terrified  at  the 

118 


HONEYMOON 

thought  of  his  being  with  her  brother.  "Do  keep  him 
from  going  more  than  thirty  miles  an  hour." 

At  once  Rene  was  on  her  side  against  Kurt  and 
exasperated  him  by  asking  perpetually:  "What  are 
we  doing  now?"  To  which  Kurt  invariably  replied: 
"Damn  near  fifty." 

The  tour  ended  in  a  river  in  Derbyshire.  Kurt  took 
a  curly  wooden  bridge  at  thirty  miles  an  hour,  carried 
away  the  railing,  and  plunged  Rene  and  machine  into 
six  feet  of  water.  Kurt  could  not  swim,  and  Rene 
hauled  him  out  and  screamed  at  him: 

"You  deserve  to  be  killed!  You  deserve  to  be 
killed !  Taking  the  bridge  like  that." 

Kurt  grinned: 

"You  don't  know  how  funny  you  looked  in  the 
bath-chair  toppling  over.  What  a  smash!  What 
idiots  to  have  a  bridge  like  that.  It's  no  good  for 
anything  except  a  push-bike.  I'll  get  a  car  if  the 
insurance  people  stump  up." 

Rene  was  really  shocked  at  his  callousness,  and  as 
they  sat  in  blankets  while  their  clothes  were  being 
dried,  he  took  him  to  task,  delivered  himself  of  a 
pedagogic  exhortation  and  ended  by  saying: 

"Kurt!    Kurt!    I  believe  you  have  no  feeling!" 

"Nerves !  What's  the  good  of  them  anyway  ?  But 
I'm  jolly  grateful  to  you  for  pulling  me  out.  I  must 
learn  to  swim.  It  might  be  jolly  awkward  if  I  tried  to 
fly  to  America.  Wouldn't  it  be  grand  if  I  was  the 
first  man  to  do  it?" 

Something  in  the  boy's  tone  thrilled  Rene  and  he 
felt  a  pang,  a  sudden,  painful  knowledge  that  he  loved 

119 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

Kurt,  and,  when  he  was  left  alone,  Kurt's  clothes  hav- 
ing dried  first,  he  was  faintly  uneasy,  half  wondering, 
yet  not  admitting  the  doubt  to  himself,  whether  he 
had  really  loved  anybody  else.  Then  he  told  himself 
that  it  was  only  because  Kurt  had  treated  him  with  his 
boy's  frankness,  and  because  he  had  not  with  anybody 
else  been  brought  face  to  face  with  anything  so  terri- 
ble as  death.  And  then  he  found  himself  in  a  brief 
dream  asking  if  life  also  was  not  terrible,  and  love? 

And  if ?    But  such  thoughts  he  refused  to  think. 

Into  his  brooding  happiness  had  come  a  new  zest,  and 
he  would  not  waste  one  moment  of  it  upon  doubt, 
philosophic  or  particular. 

They  returned  to  Thrigsby  by  train,  and  Rene  found 
himself  committed  to  a  lie  .about  the  accident.  If  the 
truth  came  out,  said  Kurt,  his  mother  would  not  allow 
him  to  have  that  car. 

What  was  there  in  common,  thought  Rene,  between 
Linda  and  Kurt?  She  had  not  his  frankness.  (He 
was  frank  even  in  his  lying.)  She  was  subtle,  given 
to  theory.  Her  brother  had,  cut  and  dried,  not  so 
much  a  theory  as  a  program.  With  Kurt  Rene  had 
had  a  robust  pleasure  which  he  had  never  enjoyed 
with  Linda,  and  it  was  so  far  above  all  other  pleasures 
that  he  took  it  for  the  goal  to  aim  at,  the  prize  to  be 
won,  when  he  should  have  broken  down  the  barrier 
of  sex  and  overcome  her  taste  for  teasing,  and  put 
an  end  to  all  those  irritations  which  he  ascribed  to 
their  ridiculous  position  as  engaged  persons,  irritations 
that  even  in  her  letters  pricked  and  stung  him.  He 

120 


HONEYMOON 

was  slow  to  come  by  a  thought,  and  when  he  possessed 
one  always  insisted  upon  its  relevance  to  existence, 
while  she  seemed  most  to  revel  in  ideas  when  they 
were  most  irrelevant.  In  their  correspondence,  her 
letters  grew  longer  as  the  months  passed.  (After  his 
success  she  had  assumed  "intellect"  in  him.)  His  let- 
ters became  more  precise  and  brief.  He  had  no  doubt 
of  her.  She  had  taken  the  place  of  the  examination 
as  the  next  stage  in  being,  beyond  which  would  lie, 
to  borrow  her  phrase,  the  "real,  real  life." 

So  eagerly  did  he  look  forward  to  that  illumination 
that  things  and  people  had  lost  their  interest  for  him. 
The  question  of  income  was  settled;  the  problem  of 
his  father  and  mother  engaged  him  no  more.  They 
had  suddenly  become  old  to  him,  settled,  left  to  grope 
along  with  their  own  affairs  and  difficulties.  This 
made  life  at  166  easier.  He  had  stood  between  his 
father  and  mother,  and  had  now  removed  himself. 
His  mother  was  more  free  in  her  chatter,  his  father 
less  strained  and  more  jovial  in  his  talk.  Rene  had 
told  them  of  his  engagement  and  of  Linda's  wealth, 
and  this,  coupled  with  his  success,  had  made  them 
acquiesce  in  his  translation  to  a  superior  sphere  and 
even  take  some  pride  in  it.  For  a  short  while  he  had 
qualms  on  seeing  his  mother  let  him  go  so  lightly,  but 
he  faced  the  fact  and  did  not  let  it  obtrude  upon  his 
dreams  of  graciousness  and  freedom. 

All  these  events  had  delivered  him  for  the  first  en- 
joyment of  his  youth,  and  his  thoughts  were  like  bees 
in  a  flowering  lime-tree.  They  were  disturbed  by  noth- 
ing but  Linda's  letters.  The  more  she  teased  and 

121 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

flattered  his  "intellect,"  the  more  he  dwelt  upon  the 
future  when  the  teasing  and  the  flattery  would  have 
ceased,  and  his  warm  satisfaction  would  be  invigorated 
by  the  zestful  sharing  of  married  life.  He  made 
no  plans  and  hardly  considered  those  she  threw  out. 
She  had  ambitions  for  him.  They  were  too  fantastic 
to  be  noticed. 

A  silence  of  three  weeks  alarmed  him.  She  broke 
it  with  the  announcement  of  her  return,  and  the  ex- 
pression of  her  desire  to  be  married  at  once,  and  a 
request  that  he  would  meet  her  in  London,  for  she 
was  crossing  by  Flushing. 

It  was  early  spring.  He  obtained  a  day's  leave  of 
absence  from  school,  and  met  her  at  Fenchurch  Street. 
He  saw  no  more  of  London  than  was  to  be  seen  as  a 
background  to  her  profile  as  they  drove  to  Euston. 
She  was  different  from  the  image  he  had  formed  of 
her  during  her  absence,  smaller,  even  prettier,  more 
vivacious  and  effective.  They  kissed  when  they  met, 
rather  to  his  astonishment,  for  he  had  not  the  least 
desire  to  kiss  her  but  only  to  consider  her.  She  began 
to  talk  at  once : 

"It  has  done  wonders  for  you.  You  look  so  much 
more  confident  and  bigger.  Your  success  I  mean. 
And  you  really  are  distinguished-looking.  How  do 
you  like  your  work?" 

"I  do  it  without No,  I  haven't  thought  about 

it." 

"I  wanted  them  to  take  you  into  the  business — 
Brock  and  M'Elroy,  you  know.  But  old  Mr.  M'Elroy 

122 


HONEYMOON 

wouldn't  hear  of  it.  They  wanted  me  to  marry  Jack 
M'Elroy.  Perhaps  I  should  have  done  it  if  I  hadn't 
met  you." 

That  did  not  please  him  at  all,  though  it  was  obvi- 
ously intended  to  do  so.  She  went  on : 

"But  we'll  show  them  that  we  can  do  better  on  our 
own  lines,  won't  we?  Father  used  to  say  that  com- 
merce was  sordid  however  honest  you  tried  to  be,  and 
after  all,  it  isn't  work  for  a  first-rate  man,  is  it?" 

Her  insistence  on  his  success  and  abilities  worried 
him.  It  was  not  for  this  he  had  been  waiting.  He 
wanted  her  to  tell  him  what  had  brought  her  to  her 
abrupt  decision  to  be  married  sooner  than  they  had 
planned.  He  tried  to  lead  her  on  to  that  but  could 
bring  her  to  no  other  intimacy  than  that  of  little  ca- 
resses with  her  hands.  He  would  not  admit  his  dis- 
appointment, and  all  through  the  four  hours'  journey 
kept  on  telling  himself  that  he  was  glad  to  see  her. 
And  indeed  he  was  glad.  Her  coming  brought  the 
promised  future  nearer. 

She  gave  him  no  time  to  ponder  his  disappointment 
or  the  hole  it  knocked  in  his  brooding  pleasure.  They 
chose  a  house,  fifty  pounds  a  year,  with  a  garden,  in 
Gait's  Park.  He  took  his  mother  to  see  it,  and  she 
assumed  the  manner  she  had  had  in  the  old  days  for 
the  visits  of  the  "rich  Fourmys." 

A  fortnight's  shopping  furnished  the  house,  and  he 
had  the  satisfaction  of  supplying  the  furniture  for  his 
study  out  of  a  check  sent  by  his  Aunt  Janet.  The 
trousseau  took  another  three  weeks,  and  Mrs.  Brock, 

123 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

with  an  eye  to  wedding  presents,  would  not  hear  of  the 
day  being  fixed  until  after  an  interval  of  six  weeks.  A 
miserable  time.  Linda  seemed  to  think  of  everything 
but  her  bridegroom. 

For  the  honeymoon  the  Yorkshire  coast  was  chosen, 
by  whom  it  was  not  very  clear.  Rene  had  wanted 
Derbyshire;  Linda  had  proposed  the  Lakes,  but,  a 
fortnight  before  the  marriage,  Mrs.  Smallman  had 
appeared  on  the  scene  and  taken  charge,  instructed 
them,  tactfully  and  almost  tacitly,  in  the  correct  de- 
portment of  those  about  to  be  married.  She  kept  the 
couple  apart,  spent  days  and  evenings  with  Linda,  and 
made  her  keep  Rene  distracted.  The  Smallmans  had 
spent  their  honeymoon  on  the  Yorkshire  coast;  they 
knew  of  a  charming  little  private  hotel  overlooking 
Ravenscar;  theirs  had  been  the  perfect  honeymoon, 
one  which  had  never  come  to  an  end.  So  might — 
must — it  be  with  Rene's;  and  so  it  would  be  if  good- 
will, advice,  kindly  glances,  friendly  instruction,  could 
bring  it  about.  The  Professor  expanded: 

"It  is  wonderful  when  all  that  you  have  loved  in  a 
dream,  as  it  were,  materializes  and  is  there  in  your 
hands.  Only  you  feel  so  confoundedly  unworthy.  And 
then,  when  you  are  married  and  settled  down,  you  get 
so  abominably  accustomed  to  it.  No  one  could  be 
more  devoted  than  my  wife  and  I,  but  we  find  that  if 
we  do  not  keep  ourselves  alive  with  outside  interests, 
we  begin  to  wear  each  other  down.  It  isn't  easy — 
marriage.  I  can  say  all  this  now,  because  if  I  don't  I 
never  shall.  And,  after  all,  you  know,  I  like  you, 
Fourmy.  We  shall  work  together  and  be  good  friends, 

124 


HONEYMOON 

but  we  lose  something,  you  know.    A  certain  kind  of 
intimacy  we  can  never  have  again." 

This  talk  reminded  Rene  of  the  occasion  when 
George  had  taken  him  as  a  small  boy  to  the  swimming 
baths,  made  him  stand  on  the  edge  practicing  strokes, 
and  then  pushed  him  into  the  deep  end. 

The  night  before  his  departure,  his  mother  came 
into  his  room  and  sat  on  his  bed  and  looked  long  at 
him: 

"I  can't  bear  to  think  of  your  bed  empty  to-mor- 
row," she  said. 

"Better  send  it  to  the  new  house,"  replied  he. 

"I  can  hardly  realize  that  you  are  a  man  and  going 
to  have  a  wife.  It  seems  only  the  other  day  that  you 
were  a  little  boy,  learning  to  cook  in  the  kitchen.  Do 
you  remember?  And  now  I  suppose  you'll  have  late 
dinner.  It  is  queer.  I  used  to  be  able  to  think  of  you 
as  a  boy  at  school,  but  I  can  never  imagine  you  as  a 
teacher,  in  a  gown,  too.  And  it's  even  harder  to  think 
of  you " 

"You  shall  come  and  stay  with  us." 

"Oh,  I  couldn't!"     She  looked  toward  the  door. 

"You  could  come  without  father." 

"Don't  be  hard  on  your  father,  Rene." 

"No.    That's  all  over." 

"I'm  so  glad." 

She  stooped  over  him  and  kissed  him.  Then  she 
took  his  head  in  her  hands  and  pressed  her  cheek 
against  his,  and  on  his  forehead  he  felt  her  warm  tears. 
She  murmured: 

125 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"I've  always  tried  to  do  my  best." 

Then  she  left  him,  and  he  felt  the  tears  rising  to  his 
own  eyes,  and  he  lay  in  worship  of  the  beautiful  kind- 
ness of  women.  They  seemed  to  hold  in  fee  so  much 
of  life's  loveliness,  to  be  able  to  open  to  a  man  fair 
regions  that  else  were  hidden  to  him  all  his  days.  He 
was  eager  for  the  morrow's  adventure. 

The  wedding  made  him  feel  that  it  was  not  by  his 
own  will  that  he  was  being  married,  but  that  in  some 
fantastic  way  he  had  been  brought  to  it  by  Mrs.  Brock 
and  the  Smallmans  and,  incongruously,  by  his  father 
and  George,  and  was  doing  it  to  oblige  them.  The 
collective  will  of  several  persons  was  using  him  and 
Linda  as  pawns  in  an  aimless  game. 

The  ceremony  took  place  in  a  very  ugly  Lutheran 
chapel,  and  the  recited  words  had  no  meaning  for  his 
bewildered  mind.  George  and  Elsie — whom  he  re- 
membered in  the  middle  of  it — had  had  a  reason  for 
their  marriage.  His  own  seemed  purposeless — No. 
Did  it  not  open  up  to  him  an  unending  tenderness  like 
that  given  him  by  his  mother  last  night  ?  He  stole  a 
glance  at  Linda.  She  was  all  pride  and  blushes,  rather 
breathlessly  intent  upon  the  ceremony,  which  seemed 
to  have  some  emotional  significance  for  her. 

They  had  two  rooms  reserved  for  them  in  the  little 
hotel.  They  avoided  them,  and  preferred  to  be  out  of 
doors.  They  took  food  with  them  to  escape  dinner 
before  the  other  visitors  and  walked  the  three  miles 
to  the  top  of  Ravenscar.  There  they  sat  in  the  heather 

126 


HONEYMOON 

and  gazed  out  seaward  in  silence.  On  the  way  they 
had  talked  little,  except  to  comment  on  the  broken 
sky,  the  color  in  the  moors,  the  still  shining  sea,  gray 
and  green.  They  sat  in  silence,  and  he  felt  utterly 
alone,  cut  off  from  his  old  life  with  no  new  life  begun. 
And  almost  angrily  he  thrust  away  the  idea  of  the 
woman  sitting  there  by  his  side.  So  charming  she  had 
been  in  the  glamour  of  the  future,  so  irrelevant  she 
seemed  now  that  he  was  thrust  away  with  her  to  find 
or  fail  to  find  in  her  a  life  to  replace  that  which  had 
slipped  away  from  him.  He  had  prized  that  old  life 
so  little  while  it  was  his,  but  it  had  been  familiar,  his 
habitual  garment.  It  had  been  fashioned  with  his 
growth.  She  had  been  outside  it;  that  had  been  her 
fascination.  But  he  was  stripped  of  it,  and  he  had 
nothing  wherewith  to  approach  her.  And  suddenly  he 
saw  that  he  was  failing  her,  that  such  thoughts  were  a 
betrayal  of  her  trust  in  him.  After  all,  she  too  had 
shed  her  old  life.  He  was  fearful  lest  she  should  be- 
come aware  of  his  treachery.  He  said  :4 

"When  I  was  away  with  Kurt "    And  at  once 

he  knew  that  he  had  made  a  false  move.  The  thought 
of  Kurt  filled  him  with  the  memory  of  the  free  joy  he 
had  had  on  that  excursion,  and  he  could  not  but  con- 
trast it  with  the  mean  and  sickly  hesitation  of  this. 
What  was  it?  What  was  he  afraid  of?  Afraid  of 
the  woman  ?  Oh,  come !  Did  he  not  love  her  and  she 
him  ?  What  was  there  to  dread  in  love  ? 

She  said: 

"Oh,  Rene,  we  didn't  come  away  to  talk  of  Kurt." 

"No." 

127 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"We  didn't  come  away  to  talk." 

"No." 

She  came  close  to  his  side. 

"Rene,  kiss  me.     Say  you  love  me." 

"I  love  you." 

But  it  was  better  to  sit  in  silence  and  gaze  out  at  the 
sea,  gray  and  green. 

She  clung  to  him,  caressed  him,  used  absurd  little 
phrases,  English  and  German. 

"I  loved  you,"  she  said,  "from  the  first  moment 
when  you  came  into  the  Smallmans'  drawing-room.  I 
was  wearing  green.  Do  you  remember?" 

"Green.  Yes.  I  remember.  I  saw  your  parasol  in 
the  hall." 

"And  you  loved  me  from  the  moment  when  you 
saw  my  parasol." 

She  laughed.  That  was  better.  It  broke  the  heavy 
brooding  in  him  that  had  brought  him  to  such 
suspense. 

The  evening  air  chilled  them,  and  they  walked  home 
under  the  stars.  She  clung  to  him  and  sang  ditties  of 
love  and  trysts  and  sentimental  disasters.  When  they 
reached  their  sitting-room  she  came  to  him  and  placed 
her  hand  under  his  chin,  pressed  his  lips  with  her 
forefinger,  and  then  kissed  him.  Then  she  left  him. 

In  the  early  hours  of  the  morning  he  was  out  on 
the  seashore,  wandering  aimlessly,  nervously,  deject- 
edly. Every  now  and  then  he  threw  up  his  head  and 
took  in  a  great  draught  of  the  keen  morning  air  blow- 
ing in  from  the  sea.  That  invigorated,  cleansed  him. 

128 


HONEYMOON 

Suddenly  he  crouched  on  the  sands  and  hid  his  face 
in  his  hands,  and  cried  within  himself: 

"I  can't  go  on.  I  can't  go  back.  Oh,  Love,  my 
love." 

He  had  counted  on  her  to  open  up  new  wonders  and 
sweet  joys,  and  together  they  had  attained  nothing 
but  heat  and  hunger  and  distress. 


XI 

MATRIMONY 

Hear  me,  auld  Hangie,  for  a  wee, 
An'  let  poor  damned  bodies  be: 
I'm  sure  sma'  pleasure  it  can  gie 

Ev'n  to  a  deil 
To.skelp  and  scaud  poor  dogs  like  me 

An'  hear  us  squeal. 

HE  returned  to  her.  She  was  in  dressing-gown, 
fresh,  indolent,  gay.  She  held  out  her  hand 
to  him. 

"What  a  strange  man  you  are!  Couldn't  you 
sleep?" 

"No.    I  couldn't  sleep. 

"Poor  old  thing.    I  slept  wonderfully." 

Had  she  felt  nothing  ?  Had  she  no  suspicion  of  the 
agony  that  had  driven  him  from  her  side  ?  Of  the  sick 
hope  of  comfort  and  reassurance  that  had  brought  him 
back  to  her  ?  A  faint  shadow  of  fear  had  crossed  her 
face  on  his  entrance,  but  it  had  vanished  when  he 
spoke. 

Indeed  he  was  reassured.  Her  gaiety  and  charm 
disarmed  him.  The  sun  came  streaming  through  the 
window  upon  her  hair ;  her  eyes  danced ;  she  glowed 

130 


MATRIMONY 

in  her  health  and  physical  well-being.  He  had  no  other 
creature  to  whom  to  turn.  Under  the  spell  of  her 
radiance  he  appealed  to  her,  who  had  wounded  him,  to 
repair  the  hurt.  She  petted  him,  made  much  of  him, 
denied  him  the  relief  of  activity,,  and  had  him  to  sit 
with  her  in  the  heather  with  his  head  in  her  lap  while 
she  crooned  to  him  of  how  happy  she  was,  and  how 
proud  a  wife,  and  how  this  honeymoon  would  never 
come  to  an  end.  There  was  a  drugging  beauty  in  her 
voice  that  soothed  him  and  had  him  dwelling  in  a 
honeyed  sleep.  It  was  sweet  to  lie  in  the  sun  and 
gaze  through  half-closed  lids  at  the  pale  sky  and 
stifle  the  voices  of  hostility  that  stirred  in  him 
at  her  touch,  at  the  caressing  notes  in  her  voice, 
at  her  perpetual  drone  of  contented  triumph.  She 
allowed  him  silence,  but  then  only  the  more  keenly 
could  he  feel  her  presence.  She  would  sigh  out  of 
it: 

"A — a — ah !  If  we  could  stay  like  this  forever  and 
ever,  in  this  quiet,  lovely  place  filled  with  nothing  but 
us  two!  If  we  could  stay!" 

He  thought  of  Kurt,  and  his  mania  for  moving  on. 

She  said: 

"Rene!  What  do  you  like  best  in  the  world?  I 
should  like  to  give  it  you." 

He  answered: 

"Peace." 

"Peace?    Isn't  this  peace?" 

Anger  stirred  in  him  on  that.  How  could  she  talk 
of  peace  when  to  him  every  moment  throbbed  with 
menace?  He  turned  over  on  his  side  away  from  her. 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"Can  there  ever  be  peace,"  he  asked,  "between  a 
man  and  a  woman?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

He  made  no  reply. 

"Ren !  What  do  you  mean  ?  You  sounded  almost 
angry.  Oh,  I  know  what  you  mean."  And  she 
dodged  aside  into  phrases — the  war  of  the  sexes,  the 
difficulty  of  adjustment  between  the  masculine- femi- 
nine and  the  feminine-masculine.  He  was  thinking  of 
himself  and  her,  she  of  abstract  entities  between  whom 
there  was  an  hypothetical  bottomless  difference.  She 
guessed  that  he  might  be  bored  with  love-making  and 
the  honey-dew  of  desire,  and  set  herself  to  be  interest- 
ing to  keep  him  amused.  She  succeeded,  but  not  with- 
out exasperating  him  a  little. 

"I  meant  you  and  me,"  he  said,  biting  out  his  words. 

"Us?  Oh,  you  dear  silly!  There  never  was  any- 
thing so  wonderful  as  us.  We  couldn't  be  more  won- 
derful. Could  we?" 

"I  dunno.  But  as  I  sit  here,  Lin,  I  can't  help  think- 
ing of  those  damned  Smallmans.  They  must  have  sat 
here  and  they  must  have  said:  'How  wonderful  we 
are!'" 

That  seemed  to  strike  home  to  her,  to  hurt  her,  for 
she  cried  out  and  jumped  to  her  feet. 

"Oh,  I  never  thought " 

She  moved  quickly  away  and  stood  on  top  of  a  little 
hill  against  the  sky,  the  wind  driving  back  her  skirts 
and  sending  them  ballooning  out  behind  her.  He  came 
up  to  her. 

"What  did  you  never  think?" 
132 


MATRIMONY 

"That  on  our  second  day  you  would  be  satirical." 
He  did  not  know  the  exact  meaning  of  the  word, 

took  it  to  mean  the  saying  of  what  you  do  not  pre- 

cisely intend.     He  protested: 

"I  said  what  I  felt.     Mayn't  I  do  that?     I  didn't 

think   it   would  hurt  you,   really,   I   didn't.     Linda, 


"Oh,  you  have  such  a  heavy,  stodgy  mind.  You 
always  mean  much  more  than  you  can  say.  And  you 
don't  know  how  uncomfortable  it  is." 

She  had  always  been  able  to  make  him,  in  flashes, 
interested  in  himself.  Now  her  words  came  on  him 
in  faint  illumination.  He  stood  pondering  it. 

"I  can't  help  it,"  he  said  slowly,  "I'm  made  like 
that.  I  can't  be  comfortable." 

Her  answer  seemed  to  him  to  clinch  the  hostility 
between  them,  to  bring  it,  to  his  intense  relief,  out  into 
the  open. 

"I  know  you  can't,"  she  said,  "but  I  can,  and  you 
mustn't  spoil  it  for  me." 

He  was  so  grateful  to  her  for  this  relief  that  he 
caught  hold  of  her  and  cried: 

"Oh,  Linda,  if  I  thought  I  had  spoiled  your  happi- 
ness, I  would  -  " 

"What  would  you  do?" 

"I  don't  know.  But  I  would  move  heaven  and 
earth  to  give  it  back  to  you." 

"I  believe  you  would,  and  that  makes  me  love  you." 

He  weakened  to  her  will,  and  not  again  during  their 
honeymoon  did  he  let  slip  in  expression  or  gesture  the 

133 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

tiniest  hint  of  the  storm  let  loose  in  him.  Small 
periods  of  solitude  he  could  procure  at  night  when  she 
had  retired  for  her  astonishingly  lengthy  toilette. 
Then  in  suppression  of  his  fire  and  rebellion,  in  the 
effort  to  keep  a  tight  control  on  it  even  within  himself, 
he  became  aware  of  a  strength,  a  firmness  that,  out 
of  all  that  he  had  lost  of  youth  and  ease  and  pleasant 
happiness  and  the  charm  of  living,  emerged  as  gain. 
Yet  it  was  not  in  his  nature  to  count  it  up  nor  to  hoard. 
He  could  find  much  to  rejoice  over,  the  splendor  of 
the  night,  the  keen  winds,  the  huge  waves  splashing 
under  the  wind,  and  all  he  would  take  to  his  wife  for 
her  to  turn  into  charm.  And  she  would  weave  her 
spells  round  him.  Her  tone,  her  eyes,  her  warmth, 
that  was  so  like  tenderness  as  almost  to  deceive  him 
into  acquiescence,  all  said  to  him:  "Forget!  For- 
get !"  But  every  fiber  of  his  will  was  stretched  in  the 
effort  to  remember  and  gain  knowledge — to  remem- 
ber how  this  thing  had  come  about,  that  he  should 
have  so  much  and  so  little  love  for  this  woman,  by 
what  blindness  he  had  come  to  it,  and  what  in  all  his 
slow  growth  to  manhood  should  have  brought  him 
to  such  sweet  mockery  of  it.  These  were  not  his 
words.  He  was  groping  beyond  words,  beyond  ac- 
tions; his  captured  force  was  searching  through  his 
life  to  find  forces  to  sustain  it,  to  urge  it  on,  to  release 
that  slow-moving  stream  that  had  brought  him  thus 
far  to  be  chained  and  confined.  He  who  had  realized 
so  little  was  struggling  to  realize  himself,  to  find  within 
himself  the  power  that  should  break  this  woman  in 
her  complacent  dwelling  in  the  pleasure  of  their  love 

134 


and  set  him  free  and  her.  For  he  had  begun  dimly  to 
perceive  that  she  too  was  to  be  thought  of,  and  in  his 
effort  he  was  gentle  with  her.  This  was  hard,  for 
against  his  gentleness  she  chafed.  She  wanted  turbu- 
lence, upheaval,  suspected  not  the  stirring  in  his  depths 
and  was  forever  agitating  the  surface  of  his  being. 
Once  or  twice  she  did  call  forth  the  anger,  and  then  she 
reveled  in  her  delicious  fright  and  was  so  quiet  as  to 
alarm  him  and  drive  him  back  into  his  gentleness. 
Out  of  this  she  stirred  him.  It  was  to  her  only  an 
odious  sluggishness. 

It  was  a  comfort  to  him  that  he  could  admire  her. 
She  touched  nothing  but  she  gave  it  charm.  She 
changed  the  Mapledom  of  their  room  to  an  originality 
of  elegance.  Her  ingenuity  and  adroitness  with  her- 
self were  a  source  of  amusement  and  amazement  to 
him.  The  fun  of  watching  a  woman  in  all  her  "ways ! 
Her  modesties,  her  coquetries,  her  absorption  in  the 
effect  she  is  going  to  produce  though  it  be  only  on 
an  old  fisherman  on  the  quay!  Her  deceptions  and 
comedies,  her  ruses,  her  choice  of  mood,  her  skill  in 
calling  forth  the  complementary  mood  in  her  compan- 
ion !  With  Linda  Rene  took  particular  delight  in  her 
wit,  her  pleasantly  malicious  comment  on  the  persons 
of  their  world.  Sometimes  she  would  bring  out  in  her 
talk  of  them  qualities  and  foibles  that  he  had  not  re- 
marked, though  on  her  indication  he  was  forced  to 
admit  that  they  were  surprisingly  there.  Other  times 
she  seemed  to  shape  them  to  fit  in  with  a  fantastic 
world  of  her  own.  And  that  would  be  little  less  amus- 
ing than  her  criticisms.  He  could  admire  her,  but  his 

135 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

admiration  made  him  feel  how  remote  she  was,  how 
unpossessed,  how  little  he  desired  possession,  and 
how,  in  all  things,  she  invited  to  it. 

Perhaps  she  felt  some  of  his  uneasiness,  for  she 
said  toward  the  end  of  their  stay: 

"I  suppose  a  honeymoon  can  never  be  the  same  to 
a  man  as  it  is  to  a  woman."  (The  hypothetical  man 
and  woman  of  all  her  arguments.)  "A  man  must 
have  his  work." 

"I've  been  thinking,"  said  Rene,  "that  we  never 
know  what  we  want  but  when  we  have  it." 

"How  true !"  She  had  a  way  of  making  agreement 
with  him  a  sort  of  flattery,  than  which  he  found  little 
more  distasteful. 

And  as  they  drove  to  the  station  she  looked  round 
at  the  hills  and  the  rocky  coast-line,  and  murmured: 

"It  will  be  something  to  remember.  It  is  a  pretty 
place." 

For  him  it  had  a  beauty  that  had  stirred  him  like 
nothing  else  he  had  ever  known.  For  him  also,  till 
now,  all  things  had  been  charming,  but  the  desolate 
moors,  the  stubborn  cliffs  had  led  him  away  from 
charm  to  beauty  and  the  savage  joy  of  living  in  re- 
sistance. 

The  return  to  their  world  shocked  him.  From  those 
weeks  of  the  profoundest  emotions  that  had  ever 
shaken  him  to  come  back  to  amiable  superficial  rela- 
tionships left  him  floundering,  made  him,  when  he  had 
collected  himself,  feel  how  utterly  dependent  he  was 
upon  his  wife.  He  was  committed  to  her,  isolated 

136 


MATRIMONY 

with  her.  The  loneliness  of  that  day  upon  Ravenscar 
was  nothing  to  the  loneliness  in  the  multitude. 

Linda  was  immediately  busy  organizing  her  house- 
hold, buying,  buying  all  day  long;  visiting,  receiving 
visitors;  she  had  crowds  of  friends  and  gushing  ac- 
quaintances, and  they  easily  assimilated  her  husband, 
were  interested  in  him  as  they  were  interested  in  her 
wall-papers,  her  furniture,  her  plans  for  the  little  gar- 
den, her  gowns,  her  china.  He  used  to  watch  eagerly, 
almost  hungrily,  for  a  sign  that  they  recognized  his 
existence  apart  from  hers,  but  no  sign  ever  came.  To 
the  women  he  was  something  belonging  to  dear  Linda, 
and  therefore  to  be  admired  since  she  was  reputed  to 
get  the  best  of  everything;  to  the  men,  hard-headed, 
commercial  gentry,  he  seemed  to  be  baffling  and  omi- 
nous, for  they  either  fished  nervously  and  falteringly 
for  his  views  or  left  him  in  the  silence  to  which  their 
geniality  reduced  him. 

He  resumed  his  work  at  the  school  where  he  had  not 
yet  learned  to  disengage  himself  from  his  schoolboy's 
sensations — dread  of  the  headmaster,  an  inclination  to 
run  along  the  corridors  when  the  bell  sounded,  a  desire 
to  smack  cheeky  little  boys  over  the  head,  reluctance 
to  attend  prayers  in  the  morning.  At  the  end  of  the 
year  a  vacancy  occurred  on  the  staff  of  the  university 
and  he  was  appointed  to  fill  it. 

His  first  tussle  with  Linda  came  with  his  assertion 
of  a  desire  to  be  alone  in  his  study  when  he  was  work- 
ing. She  had  made  a  practice  of  settling  down  with 
him  in  the  evening  with  her  sewing,  or  some  clerical 
work  connected  with  one  of  the  various  committees  to 

137 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

which  she  had  had  herself  appointed-— social  and  res- 
cue work,  Arts  and  Crafts,  the  University  Musical 
Society,  the  Thrigsby  Amateur  Dramatic  Club,  the 
Goethe  Society,  etc.  She  had  learned  to  be  silent,  but 
by  the  plying  of  her  needle  or  the  scratching  of  her  pen 
she  disturbed  and  distracted  him.  He  put  up  with  it 
for  some  time,  but  at  last  it  was  too  strong  for  him, 
and  he  protested. 

"But  Mrs.  Smallman  sits  with  her  husband  every 
evening." 

"He  may  be  used  to  it,  and  she  has  a  capacity  for 
doing  nothing  which  you  do  not  share." 

"But  it's  so  absurd  to  have  two  fires  lit  in  the 
evening." 

"I'd  rather  not  work  then,  and  come  and  sit  with 
you." 

"But  you  must  work.    You  never  say  anything." 

"Then  I  must  work  alone." 

"Why  must  you?" 

"Because  I  can't  work  any  other  way." 

"What  is  it  disturbs  you?  I  won't  do  it  if  you'll 
tell  me." 

"I  can't  tell  you.    It's  just  having  you  there." 

"Then  you —  Then  you —  Oh,  well!  There's 
nothing  more  to  say  if  you  feel  like  that  about  me." 

"Linda,  don't  be  silly.    It  isn't  about  you." 

She  had  already  fluttered  out  of  the  room  and  closed 
the  door  very  slowly,  so  that  its  movement  was  the 
most  eloquent  reproach. 

Followed  their  first  period  of  coldness,  which  she 
ended  with  a  flood  of  tears  and  a  fierce  hunger  for 

138 


MATRIMONY 

possession  and  to  be  possessed  by  him  compared  with 
which  that  of  their  early  days  paled  in  his  memory. 
This  brought  him  to  a  misery  from  which  he  could  see 
no  escape  but  in  the  desire  to  appease  her,  and  he  dis- 
sembled and  seemed  to  accept  his  position  as  a  hus- 
band, one  caught  and  bound  and  confined  wholly  to  the 
existence  of  the  woman  he  had  wedded,  finding  no 
pleasure  but  in  hers,  no  comradeship  but  in  her  society, 
no  warmth  but  in  her  approbation.  Thinking  to  please 
her,  he  said  one  day  when  they  were  over  a  year  mar- 
ried: 

"The  room  over  the  study — that  would  be  the  best 
for  the  nursery  when  we  want  one." 

"But,  Rene,"  she  answered,  after  a  pause,  "we  don't 
want  to  have  children  yet,  do  we  ?" 

Despair  seized  him.     He  could  not  look  at  her. 

"No.    No.    Of  course,  it  is  as  you  please." 

She  smiled  awry : 

"Oh,  my  dear,  I  didn't  mean  you  to  take  it  like  that. 
It  sounded  horrid,  I  know.  But  for  modern  men  and 
women,  it  ought  to  be  possible " 

He  could  not  let  her  finish.  He  hated  her  talk  of 
"modern  men  and  women,"  as  though  some  change 
had  come  over  human  nature. 

"I  sometimes  think,"  he  said,  "that  no  single  word 
has  the  same  meaning  for  the  two  of  us.  Your  Love 
is  not  my  Love,  your  Yes  is  not  my  Yes,  your  No  is 
not  mine." 

"Oh,  Rene,  you  do  say  some  terrible  things !  Some- 
times you  frighten  me.  Sometimes  you  are  just  a 
helpless  silly  baby,  and  sometimes  you  seem  to  know 

139 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

more  than  anybody  I  ever  met.  You  are  so  strong,  but 
you  don't  seem  to  know  what  to  do  with  your  strength, 
and  I  am  terrified  of  you  .  .  .  Oh,  I  don't  know  what 
to  do  with  you !  Can't  we  be  just  happy?" 

"Just  happy!  ...  I  suppose  we  can." 

"We  have  been  .  .  .  Haven't  we?" 

"We  have  been,"  he  said,  but  the  words  in  his  mind 
were :  "No  more  than  happy." 

To  avoid  hurting  her  he  had  abandoned  the  use  of 
even  that  much  introspective  power  that  he  had  come 
by  in  Yorkshire  by  the  sea.  Now  he  worked,  let  the 
days  run  by  on  the  wheels  of  habit,  and  gave  her  as 
good  a  counterfeit  as  he  could  make  of  what  she  de- 
sired. 

She  decided  in  her  own  mind  that  he  was  working 
too  hard,  and  must  be  taken  out  of  his  solitude,  which 
she  ascribed  to  his  inability  to  find  his  feet  socially 
after  being  lifted  out  of  his  own  class,  and  dumped  into 
hers.  Her  brother  was  wanting  to  get  rid  of  his  first 
small  two-cylinder  car  to  buy  a  new  30-40  h.p.  She 
made  him  an  offer  for  the  little  car,  and  he  closed  with 
it  and  undertook  to  teach  Rene  to  drive. 

That  was  not  a  very  difficult  matter.  Two  lessons 
sufficed,  and  Ren6  was  left  with  the  car  on  his  hands 
and  no  knowledge  of  its  mechanism. 

"But  what  shall  I  do  if  it  breaks  down?" 

"It  can't  break  down,"  said  Kurt.  "The  magneto 
can't  go  wrong.  If  she  stops,  clean  the  sparking  plug 
or  put  in  a  new  one.  It  must  be  that  or  the  jet." 

Rene  tried  to  read  a  book  about  motor-cars,  but 
140 


could  not  apply  its  technicalities  to  his  own  machine. 
He  spent  some  days  in  and  about  and  under  the  car, 
tracing  out  the  principles  on  which  it  worked,  and  fol- 
lowing its  transmission  of  energy  from  cylinder  to 
clutch,  from  clutch  to  gear,  gear  to  back-axle.  When 
he  had  done  that  he  felt  some  confidence  in  driving, 
came  to  know  the  moods  of  his  engine,  and  to  take  an 
extraordinary  pleasure  in  handling  it.  Every  week- 
end he  made  some  excursion  with  Kurt  or  Linda,  and 
sometimes  alone.  He  explored  the  country  for  fifty 
miles  round  Thrigsby,  and  discovered  to  his  dismay 
the  vastness  of  the  network  of  industrial  towns,  and, 
to  his  delight,  the  loveliness  of  the  still  uncontaminated 
country. 

At  first  the  change  produced  the  effect  Linda  had 
desired.  He  had  a  new  energy  which  enabled  him  to 
take  the  dull  work  of  the  week  lightly.  He  seemed  to 
have  caught  some  of  Kurt's  enthusiasm  together  with 
a  little  of  his  good  humor  and  tolerance.  But  these 
qualities  he  could  not  assume  without  the  frankness 
that  nourished  them.  Soon  he  was  no  longer  deceived 
by  the  counterfeit  he  had  evolved  for  his  wife's  satis- 
faction, and  could  not  evade  the  fact  that  his  excursions 
were  desired  chiefly  as  an  escape  from  it.  Their  two 
habitual  lives  were  organized  effectively  enough ;  it  was 
when  their  lives  met  that  there  was  insufficiency,  fum- 
bling, distrust,  evasion.  He  could  not  altogether  con- 
ceal from  her  the  disgust  and  almost  horror  that  he 
felt  on  being  faced  with  the  deception  he  had  practiced 
on  himself,  and  through  himself  on  her.  She  saw  his 
distress,  could  not  altogether  understand,  felt  that  she 

141 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

was  giving  him  too  many  opportunities  to  escape  from 
her,  and  in  her  turn  began  to  counterfeit  an  interest 
in  his  enthusiasms  and  to  insist  on  occupying  a  seat  in 
the  car  whenever  he  went  away,  whether  Kurt  was 
with  him  or  not.  Kurt  had  an  affectionate  pampering 
way  with  her,  a  mere  expedient  for  striking  harmony 
between  their  different  natures,  which  Rene  as  usual, 
taking  seriously,  misread  as  contempt.  This,  unknown 
to  himself,  encouraged  the  growth  of  the  hatred  which 
he  had  never  allowed  to  rear  its  head.  .  .  .  And  Linda, 
a  little  wearied  by  now  of  the  part  of  the  lover,  had 
begun  to  play  the  part  of  the  devoted,  settled  wife,  to 
throw  up  round  herself  as  bulwarks  her  advantages — 
her  charming  house,  her  ample  means,  her  distin- 
guished husband,  a  man  of  learning  and  culture  in  a 
commercial  atmosphere,  leisure  among  the  unleisured. 
It  was  only  an  experiment  on  her  part,  but  she  gave  it 
a  thorough  trial.  When  it  failed  she  had  her  mo- 
ments of  despair.  She  had  felt  her  husband's  with- 
drawal from  her,  at  least  the  removal  of  the  deceit 
which  covered  it.  She  was  enraged,  determined  to 
break  him  into  submission,  flung  the  whole  force  of  her 
nature  into  the  effort  and  failed  again.  Then,  to  es- 
cape boredom,  she  began  to  arnuse  herself  with  her 
sufferings.  She  would  lead  him  on  to  talk  in  his  inar- 
ticulate fashion  of  what  he  felt  and  then  play  upon  his 
emotions  and  bring  him  back  abruptly  to  her  own 
charm,  to  realize  her  greater  skill  and  agility  in  life, 
her  Tightness  in  the  business  of  living  and  presenting  a 
brave  front  to  the  world,  and  sometimes  he  would  al- 
most admit  that  she  was  right,  and  that,  after  all,  since 

142 


MATRIMONY 

he  could  produce  nothing  definitely  superior  to  her 
desire,  he  had  better  yield  and  give  her  those  good 
things  that,  in  their  easy  circumstances,  they  were  priv- 
ileged to  enjoy — charm  and  excitement  and  pleasure. 
But  he  could  not.  Life  had  always  been  hard  for  him. 
He  could  not  consent  to  have  it  easy.  All  that  she  fed 
on  turned  to  bitterness  in  his  mouth. 

He  tried  to  tell  her  once  of  the  tenderness  his  mother 
had  given  him  on  the  night  before  he  had  come  to  her, 
the  pure  joy  that,  but  for  the  omen  at  his  heart,  he  had 
taken  for  a  foretaste  of  the  heaven  he  was  to  enter. 
She  said: 

"She  is  a  dear  old  woman,  your  mother." 
In  the  way  she  said  it,  in  the  purely  sentimental  in- 
terest she  showed,  he  knew  that  all  he  had  been  talking 
of  lay  outside  her  world,  and  he  remembered  Kurt 
quoting  with  approval  a  remark  some  man  had  made : 
"Linda  Brock  has  no  back  to  her  mind." 
It  became  a  desperate  longing  with  him  to  make  her 
feel,  to  rouse  her  to  a  realization  of  the  emptiness  and 
coldness  of  her  crowded,  brilliant  life.  And  he  longed 
to  be  able  to  go  to  her  and  say :  "See !  This  is  hurting 
me  here  and  here,  and  I  am  aching  with  the  pain  of  it." 
If  only  she  would  come  and  show  her  hurt  to  him! 
His  longing  was  often  in  his  eyes  as  he  looked  at  her, 
never  in  self-pity.  He  was  as  far  from  that  as  from 
judging  her.  She  had  changed  him  so;  had  so  far 
estranged  him  from  himself,  from  his  little  world  of 
dreams  and  hopes,  that  in  his  first  adoration  of  her, 
his  innocent  appreciation  of  her  womanhood,  he  had 
so  nearly  conquered  for  his  own. 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

And  he  began  to  question  his  everyday  life.  It 
seemed  mechanical.  He  had  been  shaped  for  the  posi- 
tion he  filled,  fitted  into  it  so  tightly  that  he  could  never 
move.  He  would  be  carried  on  forever  by  the  machine 
that  had  caught  him  up  as  a  small  boy  when  they  had 
marked  him  down  in  the  Lower  Third.  (They  had 
written  to  his  mother:  "He  is  a  boy  of  whom  the 
school  will  one  day  be  proud."  And  she  had  been  so 
elated  by  the  words.)  He  had  accepted  the  force  of 
the  machine  and  let  it  take  the  place  of  his  own  will. 
That  was  unpracticed.  He  had  used  it  for  nothing. 
The  machine  had  carried  him  to  security  and  given 
him  things  apparently  so  coveted  that  his  brother 
George  could  not  now  speak  to  him  naturally,  so  great 
was  his  awe  of  his  success.  It  was  so  easy  to  think 
the  thoughts  required  by  the  machine.  A  kind  of 
education  had  been  pumped  into  him.  He  had  now 
only  to  pump  that  same  kind  of  education  into  other 
young  men.  The  machine  was  efficient,  himself  effi- 
cient in  it.  There  was  satisfaction  in  that.  But  all 
the  other  men  with  whom  he  worked  were  elusive ;  so 
many  of  them,  under  the  pleasant  manners  of  the 
common-room,  concealed  despondency,  a  mood  of 
resignation  that  was  epidemic,  more  virulent  at  one 
time  than  another.  Against  that,  too,  Rene  was  in 
revolt.  Instinctively  he  felt  that  if  he  surrendered  to 
it  he  would  fall  also  to  that  other  danger  in  his  do- 
mestic life. 

He  tried  to  understand  Linda.  She  was  so  success- 
ful. So  many  people  liked  her.  Her  social  progress 
was  amazing.  Efficiency  always  gave  him  pleasure, 

144 


MATRIMONY 

and  it  was  delightful  to  him,  though  he  hated  it,  to 
feel  her  skillfully  consolidating  their  position.  She 
was  tremendously  active  in  all  external  things.  It  was 
her  inward  activity  that  he  wished  to  understand. 
What  were  the  things  that  satisfied  that  clever  brain 
of  hers?  What  her  heart?  He  had  long  ago  swept 
aside  her  pseudo-science,  sociology,  physiology,  psy- 
chology, as  external  to  herself,  things  worn  as  she  wore 
clothes,  very  well,  to  be  becoming  and  in  the  mode.  It 
pleased  her  intellectually  to  talk  of  a  hypothetical  man 
and  woman.  What  did  that  hypothetical  man  and 
woman  become  in  art?  He  followed  her  in  her  read- 
ing, her  music — so  far  as  one  so  uninstructed  could 
follow  at  all.  .  .  .  German  sentimental  lieder,  colored 
lanterns  over  water,  sweet  flirtations,  violins  in  the 
distance;  a  sighing  for  the  passing  of  youth;  a  linger- 
ing over  the  sweets  of  love,  with  ultimately  a  with- 
drawal from  love ;  a  perfume.  That  was  her  art.  In 
her  drawing-room  she  had  impressionist  and  post- 
impressionist  drawings ;  in  her  own  room  she  had  pic- 
tures of  young  men  and  maidens  in  ballrooms  and 
canoes  and  French  boudoirs. 

He  could  see  the  charm  of  the  things  she  loved,  al- 
ways melted  to  them,  but  never  without  a  reaction,  an 
angry  stiffening  of  the  will. 

At  the  same  time,  while  his  emotional  interest  in  her 
faded,  he  found  an  increasing  pleasure  in  watching 
her,  in  noting  her  movements  as  one  marks  a  lovely 
animal  in  its  cage.  That,  at  any  rate,  was  satisfying. 
She  had  beautiful  lines,  gestures  that  could  thrill  him 
with  their  grace,  and  he  liked  the  skill  with  which  she 

145 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

clothed  herself  to  give  every  one  of  her  attractions 
free  play. 

It  was  not  long  before  she  became  aware  of  his  cold, 
indolent  appreciation,  and  resented  it,  and  plunged  him 
back  into  the  excitement  which  could  make  him  writhe. 
It  was  then  that  they  came  into  direct  conflict,  he 
clinging  to  his  intellectual  admiration  for  her  and  cool 
appreciation  of  her  quality,  she  determined  to  deprive 
him  of  it. 

At  last  she  brought  him  to  an  angry,  reckless  vio- 
lence. She  chid  him  for  it.  Almost  weeping  in  his 
mortification  and  shame,  he  cried : 

"You  talk  as  though  marriage  were  just  a  covering 
up,  a  shelter  from  abominations." 

"Ah!"  She  too  was  angry  now.  "What  else  is 
it?" 

"By  God !"  he  said.    "I  thought  it  led  to  love." 

And  again  he  found  himself  in  that  blind  fury  that 
had  seized  him  on  hearing  his  father's  cynicism. 

For  some  days  they  avoided  each  other.  She  made 
some  pretext — wished  to  have  some  of  the  rooms  pa- 
pered— and  went  to  stay  with  her  mother. 


XII 
ESCAPE 

Ant.     Come,  I'll  be  out  of  this  ague, 

For  to  live  thus  is  not  indeed  to  live, 
It  is  a  mockery  and  abuse  of  life. 
I  will  not  henceforth  serve  myself  by  halves ! 
Love  all  or  nothing. 
Delio.    Your  own  virtue  save  you! 

T  TE  spent  hours  brooding,  prowling  in  the  streets, 
•^  •*•  in  whose  dull  monotony  his  mind  had  grown  so 
undisturbedly,  responding  to  their  small  gaieties  and 
smaller  excitements,  but  moving  on  in  the  even 
smoothness  of  their  life.  It  seemed  incredible  to  him 
that  such  turmoil  could  have  come  out  of  them,  and 
yet  that  turmoil  had  begun  even  before  his  marriage, 
before  he  had  met  his  wife.  Was  there  some  strange- 
ness in  himself?  Of  his  nature  he  became  doubtful 
and  suspicious.  Yet  the  habit  of  acceptance  was  too 
strong  in  him ;  even  his  misery  he  could  accept.  Very 
laboriously  he  strove  to  come  by  an  idea  of  himself, 
and  was  only  the  more  confused  when  he  arrived  at 
this: 

"They  won't  come  out  to  meet  me,  and  when  I  go 
out  to  meet  them,  they  run  away.     I  cannot  enjoy 

147 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

their  pleasures,  and  they  seem  to  want  nothing  else. 
It  gets  worse  and  worse.  I  couldn't  even  talk  to  Elsie 
now.  Almost  anyone  can  make  me  seem  ridiculous." 

Linda  wrote  to  him  : 

"Can't  you  see,  Ren  dear,  that  there  are  some  things 
won't  bear  thinking  of,  and  spoil  with  thinking.  You 
poor,  tortured  thing !"  (Least  of  all  did  he  want  pity 
from  her.)  "I  know  you  don't  really  want  to  think, 
and  you  don't  think  easily,  like  most  people.  At  least 
you  seem  to  hate  thinking  without  coming  to  a  conclu- 
sion. It  is  something  finer  than  obstinacy,  because  it 
isn't  at  all  for  yourself  that  you  want — what  you  want. 
What  do  you  want  ?  Isn't  it  enough  to  be  happy  ?  Oh, 
my  dear,  do  let  us  be  happy!  I  have  been  crying 
every  night.  It  isn't  that  I  mind  being  apart;  hus- 
bands and  wives  must  be  apart  sometimes  if  their  life 
is  to  be  possible  and  decent,  but  I  can't  bear  our  being 
apart  in  spirit." 

Then  she  had  understood!  She  had  seen  the  gulf 
between  them.  She  would  help  him  to  bridge  it. 

He  hastened  to  her  joyfully,  and  caught  her  up  in 
a  great  embrace,  so  that  she  laughed  in  delicious  terror. 

And  the  torment  began  again.  She  had  seen,  under- 
stood, nothing.  She  was  only  for  teasing,  wheedling, 
cajoling  him  into  submission.  She  told  him — carefully 
choosing  her  moment — that  she  would  bear  him  chil- 
dren, and  for  a  little  while,  a  second  or  two,  he  was 
appeased.  Then  his  excited  imagination  worked  on 
that.  A  child  would  mean  only  another  entity  in  the 
house,  the  empty  house,  where  there  was  no  love  to 
absorb  it  and  foster  its  growth;  more  antagonism; 

148 


ESCAPE 

more  separation;  his  child  or  hers,  it  would  not  be 
both.  He  could  not  see  at  all  clearly,  but  the  idea  of 
it  had  for  him  now  something  horrible.  With  no 
count  of  his  words  he  said : 

"I  do  not  wish  for  anything  that  you  yourself  do 
not  want." 

"I  want  it." 

"Then  why  talk  of  it?" 

"A  man  and  a  woman " 

"Talk  of  us,  woman,  talk  of  us.  God!  You  don't 
know  how  you  spoil  things  with  your  busy  mind. 
True  things,  simple  things,  lovely  things,  things  that 
lie  deep  in  heart  and  mind,  there  is  nothing  that  you 
will  not  shape  and  mold  and  knead  and  twist  into 
your  own  image,  pretty,  pretty,  charming.  Oh,  the 
lies  of  it  all,  the  lies,  the  lies,  the  lies !  And  you  never 
know  what  you  are  doing.  All  is  for  your  pleasure. 
Nothing  can  lead  you  beyond  that.  And  everything 
that  menaces  your  pleasure  you  draw  with  your  busy 
brain  into  words,  words." 

"You  don't  know  what  you  are  saying." 

"No." 

He  looked  up  at  her  with  his  eyes  glazed  and  dull, 
his  jaw  trembling,  his  fingers  rubbing  over  and  over 
again  upon  his  thumbs. 

"If  you  have  said  what  is  true,  then  you  must 
hate  me." 

"Yes." 

He  stated  it  as  though  it  were  a  plain  fact  well 
coated  over  by  habit,  so  that  it  could  give  no  pain.  She 
was  tranquil,  seemed  to  have  tight  control  over  herself. 

149 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

She  walked  twice  up  and  down  the  room.  Then  she 
turned  to  him  and  said  very  quietly : 

"I  knew  a  long  time  ago  that  if  it  ever  came  to  a 
scene  it  would  be  the  end.  I  suppose  I'm  not  romantic 
enough  for  you.  I  don't  know  what  it  is.  But  I  know 
enough  to  feel  that  a  scene  with  you  would  be  serious. 
Even  little  girls  know  that  men  must  have  scenes.  It's 
a  kind  of  love-making  with  them.  You're  different." 

"Yes." 

"I  can't  pretend  that  you  haven't  hurt  me." 

"I'm  sorry." 

"Oh,  I'd  like  to  pretend.  But  I've  changed,  too.  I 
suppose  you  can't  marry  without  being  changed.  A 
woman  who  loses  her  husband  looks  silly.  But  she 
needn't  if  she  doesn't  feel  it.  You  can't  pretend. 
Neither  can  I.  You've  taught  me  that.  We've  failed 
where  nearly  everybody  else  fails,  but  we  admit  it. 
What's  the  good  of  pitching  good  life  after  bad?  It's 
no  one's  business  but  our  own.  They'll  talk.  Let  them 
talk." 

He  hardly  heard  what  she  said.  He  was  weary  of 
her  voice  droning  on  and  on. 

"If  it  is  the  end,"  he  muttered,  "then  there  is  no 
more  to  be  said." 

He  walked  round  to  Professor  Smallman's.  He  had 
no  notion  of  the  time.  Mrs.  Smallman  admitted  him, 
saw  that  something  was  wrong,  showed  him  into  the 
study,  and  left  him.  He  stood  leaning  against  the 
doorpost.  The  Professor  was  sitting  in  his  great 
chair  with  a  cigar  in  one  hand  and  a  glass  of  whisky  in 
the  other. 


ESCAPE 

"Good  evening,"  said  Rene.    "I  have  left  my  wife." 

Down  went  the  Professor's  legs,  round  came  his 
head  out  of  the  great  chair: 

"Great  God!" 

"I  just  walked  round  to  tell  you.  I  don't  know 
why." 

"But,  my  dear  fellow,  what  on  earth — •  Not  two 
years." 

"Is  it?" 

"I  say.  Is  she?  Would  you  like  Freda  to  go 
round?" 

"No.  She  is  quite  calm.  It's  finished.  It's  she  who 
said  it.  It  never  began." 

"Come,  come.  Sit  down.  You'd  better  sleep  here 
to-night." 

"No,  thanks.    I  don't  want  to  see  you  ever  again." 

"Tut,  tut!    My  good  Fourmy!" 

"I  mean  it,"  said  Rene  dispassionately. 

"Wait  a  moment." 

The  Professor  hurried  out  of  the  room,  and  Rene 
could  hear  him  in  the  hall  talking  eagerly  to  his  wife. 
He  was  seized  with  a  dreary  impatience  of  these  good 
people,  with  their  unfailing  kindness.  He  knew  per- 
fectly well  that  in  a  moment  they  would  return,  hus- 
band and  wife,  the  husband  and  wife,  and  throw  him 
scraps  of  their  happiness  for  comfort  and  persuasion, 
while  with  their  exchange  of  glances  they  would  bar 
him  out.  No.  That  was  intolerable.  He  stepped  to 
the  French  window,  opened  it,  and  walked  out, 
round  the  house  and  through  the  garden  into  the 
street. 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

Another  false  move  checked ;  another  false  relation- 
ship ended. 

He  slept  that  night  at  the  Denmark,  lied  and  enjoyed 
lying  to  Mr.  Sherman,  saying  that  his  wife  was  away 
and  he  had  lost  his  key  and  could  not  wake  the  serv- 
ants. He  sat  in  his  room  at  the  Denmark  feeling  at 
peace  and  very  confident,  until  his  father  came.  Then 
he  sat  with  the  boon  company,  told  them  one  or  two 
stories  that  he  was  able  to  remember  from  the  stock  of 
the  Common  Room,  told  them  heavily,  dully,  so  that 
they  gained  in  comicality  and  roused  laughter.  His 
father  seemed  to  him  rather  contemptible.  He  en- 
joyed his  own  old  jests  as  much  as  his  audience,  and 
that  was  displeasing  to  Rene's  fastidious  mood. 

He  walked  home  with  his  father,  who  was  loqua- 
cious and  tiresome.  At  last  Rene  interrupted  him : 

"Father,  do  you  mind  not  talking  while  I  tell  you 
what  I  have  to  tell?  I  have  left  Linda.  I  can't  tell 
you  why  without  being  unjust  to  her,  because  I  can't 
see  clearly  enough.  She  said  it  was  finished,  and  so  it 
is.  I  am  extraordinarily  happy.  I  never  was  so  happy 
in  my  life.  I  have,  in  effect,  told  Professor  Smallman 
to  go  to  hell,  and  I  shall  do  the  same  with  anybody 
else  who  tries  to  interfere.  I  don't  know  what  I  am 
going  to  do,  and  I  don't  care.  It  is  quite  clear  to  me 
that  there  is  no  room  for  Linda  and  me  in  the  same  set 
of  people.  They  talk  so.  I  have  no  intention  of  con- 
tinuing the  life  I  have  been  leading.  Everything  I 
have  ever  done,  as  long  as  I  can  remember,  has  been 
because  someone  else  wanted  me  to  do  it,  or  because 

152 


ESCAPE 

someone  else  thought  I  could.  It  has  been  surprising 
and  delightful,  but  never  satisfying.  George  has  made 
a  better  thing  out  of  his  life  than  I.  At  least  he  has 
done  what  he  wanted  to  do,  though  you  and  I  may 
not  think  much  of  it.  I  don't  think  I  can  see  my 
mother.  I  would  dearly  like  to,  but  I  could  not  bear 
it.  She  would  make  me  feel  something,  and  at  present 
I  feel  nothing  at  all.  But  I  can  remember  her  face 
against  mine,  and  her  voice  saying:  'I  have  always 
tried  to  do  my  best.'  Good  night.  Give  her  my  love." 

He  turned  on  his  heel,  but  his  father  caught  him  by 
the  arm: 

"Don't  be  a  young  lunatic,"  he  said.  "You  can't 
go  like  that." 

"I  can,"  answered  Rene,  puzzled  that  anybody 
should  deny  what  was  actually  happening.  "I  can. 
Don't  you  see  that  I  am  going?" 

"Look  here,  I'm  a  bit  of  a  queer  one  myself,  but  do 
you  know  what  you  are  doing?" 

"For  the  first  time  in  my  life,"  said  Rene,  "I  know 
what  I  am  doing.  And  I  like  it  so  immensely  that  I 
am  going  on  doing  it.  You  can't  stop  me.  Nothing 
can  stop  me.  You  said  yourself  that  we  live  in  a  world 
of  women,  and  I  want  to  make  the  best  of  it" 

His  father  let  go  of  his  arm. 

"Good  Lord!"  he  said,  "I've  had  my  day,  but  I 
never  was  so  cracked  as  that." 

Then  he  acquiesced  in  his  son's  indifference,  nodded 
his  head  in  a  light  parting,  and  went  his  way. 

Rene's  thoughts  were  reaching  out  to  Scotland,  to 
153 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

his  Aunt  Janet's,  where  he  had  known  the  best  of  his 
boyhood.  He  walked  to  a  station  and  found  the  Lon- 
don express  waiting,  with  little  knots  of  people  stand- 
ing by  the  carriage  doors,  and  porters  bustling  with 
luggage  and  lamps  and  pillows,  all  wearing  the 
stealthy,  excited  air  of  importance  of  travelers  by 
night.  Putney  was  London,  or  near  London.  Why 
Putney?  He  did  not  know,  but  he  wanted  to  go 
there.  He  bought  a  ticket,  boarded  a  train  as  it  was 
moving,  and  sat  in  a  corner  seat  gazing  at  the  lights 
of  the  towns  and  saying  to  himself :  "That's  Ockley," 
because  when  he  had  taken  his  first  railway  journey  by 
night  he  had  asked  what  the  lights  were,  and  his 
mother  had  said :  "That's  Ockley." 


•  BOOK  TWO 
ANN   PIDDUCK 


.  .  .  and  make 

Strange   combinations   out   of   common   things 
Like  human  babes  in  their  brief  innocence, 
And  we  will  search  with  looks  and  words  of  love 
For  hidden  thoughts,  each  lovelier  than  the  last. 


I 

ADVENTURE  IN  LONDON 

Et  quelle  est  la  femme  qui  ne  chercherait  pas  a  vous 
rendre  heureux ! 

T  TE  awoke  with  a  parched  mouth  and  cramped 
•••  -^  limbs  to  find  himself  being  shaken  and  to  hear  a 
voice  saying: 

"Hi,  mate,  time  to  wake  up.  Can't  leave  you  no 
longer." 

"Eh?    Is  this  London?" 

"Aye,  and  London  it's  been  these  three  hours  past. 
You  came  in  by  the  five-twenty-five,  and  I  couldn't 
get  you  to  wake  up,  I  couldn't.  You're  in  the  sid- 
ings." 

Rene  shook  himself  and  clambered  down  with  the 
red-headed  railway  porter,  and  walked  with  him  across 
the  rails  through  several  coaches,  back  to  the  station. 

"Been  ill,  mate?" 

"No.    Why?" 

"I  never  see  such  a  face.  Got  more  than  your  fair 
share  of  bones  in  it.  It  was  that  made  me  leave  you." 

"I'm  much  obliged." 

The  big  clock  announced  five  minutes  past  eight. 

"No  luggage?"  asked  the  porter. 

157 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"No.    No  luggage." 

"Going  to  see  friends?" 

"No." 

"You'll  excuse  me  asking,  but  I  don't  like  letting  you 
go  alone  with  a  face  like  that.  D'you  know  Lon- 
don?" 

"No." 

"You'll  want  breakfast." 

Rene  realized  that  he  was  hungry.  The  porter  took 
him  to  a  pull-up  in  a  noisy  street,  filled  with  the  clang 
of  tramcars  and  the  roar  and  rattle  of  heavy  drays 
coming  from  the  goods  yard.  They  had  coffee  and 
ham  and  great  hunks  of  bread. 

"I  never  see  such  a  sleeper,"  said  the  porter. 

"I  was  tired,  I  think." 

That  struck  the  porter  as  a  good  joke.  He  kept  on 
chuckling  to  himself  and  saying : 

"Tired  ?  I  should  think  you  was.  Tired !  He  says 
he  was  tired !" 

Presently  he  became  solemn  and  leaned  across  the 
deal-topped  table. 

"I  can't  make  you  out,  mate.  I  don't  know  if  you're 
a  gent  or  what.  You're  from  the  North.  It's  easy 
to  see  that.  What  is  it?  Trouble?" 

"Not  exactly  trouble.  Nothing  unusual,  I  mean. 
It's  been  going  on  for  a  long  time." 

"They're  not  after  you,  then?" 

"Oh,  no.    No  one's  after  me." 

The  porter's  expression  showed  both  disappointment 
and  relief. 

"Is  it  far  to  Putney?"  asked  Rene. 

158 


ADVENTURE  IN  LONDON 

"It's  where  the  boat-race  is,"  said  the  porter.  "I 
been  there.  An  hour  in  a  bus  or  train." 

"I  mean — to  walk.  I'd  like  to  walk.  To  see  Lon- 
don. I've  never  seen  it,  you  know." 

"It'd  be  Fulham  Road,  I  fancy,  though  I  don't  know 
those  parts  well.  Friends  at  Putney?" 

"Someone  I  know  there." 

"I  see.  You'll  be  going  home  soon.  Return 
ticket?" 

"No.  I  just  wanted  to  see  London.  At  least,  there 
was  a  train  going  to  London." 

"Ain't  lost  your  memory,  have  you,  mate?" 

"No,"  said  Rene.  "No.  I've  lost  interest  in  it, 
that's  all." 

"Money?     Got  any  money?" 

Rene  thrust  his  hand  into  his  pocket  and  produced 
three  pounds  and  a  few  shillings. 

"And  no  friends,"  said  the  porter  to  himself.  "Well, 
you  are  a  corker,  and  no  mistake!  Set  on  going  to 
Putney,  are  you?"  Rene  nodded.  "Well,  if  you  want 
a  friend,  come  to  me."  And  he  wrote  down  ?n  address 
in  Kentish  Town  which  Rene  pocketed  without  look- 
ing at  it. 

"But  if  I  was  you,"  said  the  little  man,  "I  should 
go  back  home,  I  should,  really.  See  your  friends  and 
go  back  home.  I  had  a  brother  once  who  got  crossed 
in  love.  Took  it  something  crool,  he  did,  and  walked 
out  of  the  house  one  day  after  breakfast  and  went  to 
Canada.  We  sent  him  the  money  to  come  home,  and 
now  he's  doing  well  in  the  drysalting.  Good-by,  mate, 
and  good  luck." 

159 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

He  held  out  a  grimy  paw,  and  Rene  clasped  it  warm- 
ly. It  was,  he  felt,  a  good  beginning. 

For  some  time  he  sat  in  the  pull-up  watching  the 
busy  trade  in  victuals,  the  burly  carters,  weedy  clerks 
and  boys  come  in  and  gulp  down  their  food  and  drink 
as  though  the  beginning  of  the  day's  work  hardly  left 
them  time  for  their  natural  necessities.  It  was  all  odd- 
ly familiar  and  like  enough  to  the  life  he  had  been 
accustomed  to  in  the  school  and  university  among  fac- 
tories and  warehouses.  Only,  as  he  looked  out  of  the 
window,  the  light  was  different,  softer  and  more  gen- 
erous. It  was  exciting  and  invited  him  out. 

He  paid  the  bill,  returned  to  the  station,  and  washed 
and  had  himself  shaved.  As  he  left  the  barber's  shop 
he  saw  a  train  loading  up  for  its  journey  to  Thrigsby, 
and  he  stayed  and  watched  it  go  out  for  the  pleasure 
of  feeling  that  he  was  not  in  it.  Then  he  turned 
briskly  away  for  the  adventure  of  the  plunge  into 
London. 

A  foreign  city!  He  could  hardly  understand  the 
language  spoken  by  the  people  in  the  streets.  Within 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  he  came  on  a  great  garden  with 
trees  and  grass,  and  down  a  street  he  could  see  more 
trees.  A  keen  air  was  blowing.  It  was  invigorating 
and  whipped  up  his  blood.  In  Thrigsby,  when  the  air 
was  keen  it  was  unpleasant  and  devastating.  The 
boarding-houses  and  private  hotels  in  the  region  of  the 
station  seemed  to  him  very  lordly  houses.  They  had 
wide,  handsome  doors  that  were  in  themselves  a  wel- 
come— a  welcoming  and  no  indifferent  city.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  the  people  in  the  streets  were  aware  of  each 

160 


ADVENTURE  IN  LONDON 

other.  At  least  he  was  aware  of  them,  and  pleased 
with  every  kind  of  person.  So  many  of  them  were 
amused,  so  many  found  it  good  to  be  walking  the 
streets,  and  they  had  some  mind  and  energy  to  spare 
from  the  business  of  the  moment.  Even  the  people  in 
the  sordid  streets  through  which  he  passed  had  the  air 
of  bearing  their  squalor  good-humoredly.  No  one  was 
moody  or  grimly  silent.  And  there  was  color.  He 
knew  the  color  of  many  country-sides,  but  always  on 
entering  the  cities  he  had  felt  as  though  a  dirty  sponge 
had  been  passed  over  his  vision.  Certain  streets 
seemed  to  be  filled  with  a  dancing,  colored  light.  He 
was  lured  on  from  one  to  another,  with  no  thought  of 
time  or  direction.  Some  of  the  great  thoroughfares 
were  so  familiar  from  pictures  that  he  felt  at  home  in 
them,  and  was  queerly  put  out  when  they  led  on  to 
places  and  views  of  which  he  had  no  recollection. 
Finding  himself  approaching  a  church  as  well  known 
to  him  as  the  Collegiate  Church  in  Thrigsby,  he  said 
to  himself  with  a  sudden  thrill  of  almost  awe :  "This 
is  the  Strand!"  And  then  down  a  street  he  caught 
sight  of  water.  The  river!  He  almost  ran  down 
toward  it. 

The  tide  was  up,  the  river  at  its  broadest.  On  the 
other  side  were  great  platforms  surmounted  with  tall 
cranes  that  seemed  higher  than  the  highest  steeple. 
Beyond  were  towers,  chimneys,  domes,  standing  out 
against  the  sky  that  so  delighted  and  refreshed  him. 
That  sky  and  the  water  in  the  wide  sweep  of  the  river! 
Friendliness  and  power !  The  river  seemed  to  bear  on 
its  broad  back  the  bridges,  the  tall  buildings,  the  bus- 

161 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

tling  energy  about  them,  the  twin  masses  of  the  city 
built  up  on  its  flanks.  And  along  the  river  with  the 
tide  came  a  lovely  air,  sweetening  and  restoring.  That 
was  indeed  a  welcome,  and  he  felt  that  he  had  passed 
into  another  world  and  become  its  citizen.  He  felt  no 
more  the  strain  of  the  crisis  through  which  he  had 
passed.  The  years  of  unceasing  labor  that  lay  between 
his  boyhood  and  this  moment  were  wiped  out.  The 
current  of  his  being  flowed  again.  He  was  as  eager 
as  a  boy,  as  ripe  for  adventure,  weighed  down  only 
by  the  memory  of  the  dark  little  house  that  had  been 
his  home,  and  that  other  house  so  full  of  gracious 
things,  so  empty  of  all  that  could  justify  their  gra- 
ciousness.  And,  like  a  boy,  he  lacked  purpose.  He 
had  nothing  but  his  fantastic  desire  to  go  to  Putney, 
and  he  was  reluctant  to  tear  himself  away  from  the 
fascination  of  the  river.  But  the  porter  had  said  the 
boat-race  was  rowed  at  Putney  and  the  river  must  be 
there  also. 

So  he  walked  along  the  river  past  the  Houses  of 
Parliament.  He  had  once  made  a  cardboard  replica  of 
it  as  a  child,  and,  remembering  that,  his  mind  was  filled 
with  other  childish  memories — illnesses,  books,  fights 
with  George,  games  and  exploits  with  other  boys,  next- 
door  neighbors,  the  small  girl  at  his  first  school  who 
had  cast  a  blight  over  his  life  by  announcing  that  she 
was  in  love  with  him —  Past  the  tall  chimneys  at 
Chelsea;  and  then,  taking  a  wrong  turning,  he  found 
himself  in  a  desolate  region,  almost  as  desolate  as  any 
in  Thrigsby  but  for  the  generous  sky  above  it.  And 
the  two  sides  of  little  houses  did  not  so  dreadfully 

162 


ADVENTURE  IN  LONDON 

close  in  upon  the  street  as  they  did  in  the  mean  quar- 
ters of  the  northern  city.  Nothing  here  was  so  cramp- 
ing and  destroying  as  there. 

At  length  he  came  to  Putney  Bridge  and  crossed  it 
into  what  looked  like  a  holiday  town,  Southport,  or 
Buxton,  or  Matlock.  He  asked  a  policeman  the  way 
to  Putney. 

"This  is  Putney." 

"I  want  Mr.  Bentley's  house.  It  is  called  Rose- 
neath." 

"Mr.  Bentley.    He's  dead.    Six  months  ago." 

Rene  asked  to  be  directed  to  his  house.  The  tidings 
he  had  received  had  made  his  memory  of  Mr.  Bentley 
very  clear — gruff,  kindly,  patronizing,  a  little  pomp- 
ous, conscious  of  being  a  success  and  "somebody."  He 
had  his  name  printed  very  large  on  luggage  labels,  and 
the  note-paper  on  which  Cathleen  used  to  write  was 
crested,  with  something  about  Judex  on  the  scroll  be- 
neath the  crest.  And  Mrs.  Bentley  was  always  tired, 
and  her  husband  used  to  keep  everybody  flying  round 
to  fetch  and  carry  for  her.  But  they  had  very  nice 
ways,  and  their  house  in  Scotland  was  always  open, 
even  if  it  was  overfull  of  athletic  young  men,  highly 
polished  and  oppressively  clean. 

When  he  came  to  the  house,  Rene  found  it  empty. 
He  was  disappointed  with  its  aspect.  It  was  very  like 
the  Brocks'  house  in  Gait's  Park,  must  have  been  built 
about  the  same  time;  stucco  with  absurd  Gothic  win- 
dows ;  a  square  porch,  rooms  on  either  side  of  it.  He 
was  disappointed,  for  he  had  thought  of  the  Bentleys 
living  in  a  region  remote  and  inaccessible,  beyond  any- 

163 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

thing  he  had  ever  known  or  could  know.  He  remem- 
bered the  agent's  description  of  his  own  house — "an 
eminently  desirable  family  residence."  This  house 
bore  almost  the  same  recommendation.  The  fantastic 
London  that  he  had  shaped  in  his  mind  began  to  fall 
away.  It  had  something  in  common  with  Thrigsby, 
was  connected  with  it  by  something  more  than  the 
deep  sleep  in  which  he  had  been  borne  hither.  He  felt 
rather  foolish  standing  there  by  the  empty  house,  and 
saw  with  dismay  how  much  more  foolish  he  would 
have  been  if  the  house  had  been  occupied  and  the 
Bentleys  accessible.  He  had  a  sick  fear  as  he  saw  how 
irresponsibly  he  had  acted,  and  how  separate  his  im- 
pulse had  been  from  his  will. 

"All  the  same,"  he  said,  "it  is  done.  It  is  done.  I 
thought  I  should  always  know  what  would  happen  to 
'me,  but  this  I  did  not  know.  It  makes  it  easy  for 
Linda.  The  Smallmans  will  help  her  to  see  how  badly 
I  have  behaved.  They  will  like  saying  it  and  ex- 
plaining to  all  their  friends.  They  will  talk  about  all 
they  did  for  me.  I  never  wanted  them  to  do  anything. 
I  never  wanted — •  If  I  had  been  like  George  and 
gone  into  business?  But  I  could  not  have  stood 
that,  either.  It  would  have  been  over  sooner.  Other 
people  stand  things,  worse  things,  too.  Oh,  well — I 
can't." 

It  gave  him  no  pleasure  to  think  that  he  was  differ- 
ent from  other  people.  Rather  the  reverse ;  it  brought 
an  acute  pang  of  something  like  shame.  He  moved 
on.  He  lost  himself  in  the  polite  streets  of  Putney 
with  their  little  gardens,  but  came  at  last  to  another 

164 


ADVENTURE  IN  LONDON 

bridge.      The    sun   was   setting,   and   he   stood   and 
watched  it  weave  a  changing  tapestry  on  the  sky. 

"So  the  days  go,"  he  said.  "I  think  I  never  noticed 
a  day  go  before.  There  must  have  been  something 
very  wrong  with  me." 

That  lightened  his  heart.  To  have  confessed  his 
failure  was  already  in  some  sort  to  justify  it,  and 
though  the  cloud  upon  his  mind  had  grown  darker,  he 
was  sensible  of  a  release  of  feeling.  He  could  breathe 
again.  He  was  no  longer  the  cramped,  huddled  crea- 
ture that  he  had  been  all  day.  He  could  rejoice  as  the 
sky  grew  dark  and  the  stars  came  out  and  the  glow  of 
the  great  city  went  up  into  the  sky.  There  were 
patches  in  the  sky  so  lurid  that  they  filled  him  with 
alarm  that  they  must  mean  fire.  He  moved  toward 
one  of  those  lurid  patches  and  found  himself  presently 
in  a  narrow  thoroughfare  crowded  with  men  and 
women,  youths  and  maidens.  The  street  was  streaked 
with  light  and  darkness.  Cheap  bazaars  were 
thronged;  shops  filled  with  automatic  machines  of  en- 
tertainment were  garishly  lit ;  there  were  butchers'  and 
greengrocers'  shops  open  to  the  air,  blazing  with  color 
under  electric  and  naphtha  lamps ;  there  were  stalls  in 
the  road,  barrows  of  artificial  flowers ;  white  kinemato- 
graph  houses;  terra-cotta  music-halls  and  theaters; 
crimson-tiled  and  green-brick  public-houses;  swarms 
of  human  beings,  talking,  laughing,  singing,  the  laugh- 
ter of  excited  girls.  He  shrank  within  himself  from 
the  harsh  vitality  of  it  all.  He  was  filled  with  a  dread 
of  calling  down  some  of  the  laughter  upon  himself. 
The  road  grew  narrower,  the  wheeled  traffic  more  con- 

165 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

gested;  the  yellow  and  red  trams  seemed  to  fill  the 
street.  Motor-cars,  trams,  carts,  all  moved  slowly  and 
cautiously.  A  little  girl  started  to  move  across  the 
road,  her  eyes  fixed  on  someone  or  something  she  had 
seen  on  the  other  side.  Another  step  and  she  would 
be  under  a  motor-car.  Rene  moved  to  save  her.  At 
the  same  moment,  from  the  other  side,  he  saw  a  young 
woman  dart  out,  catch  the  child  up,  fling  her  back, 
and  rush  on  in  her  own  impetus.  She  slipped  in  the 
tramline,  and  almost  fell  just  within  his  reach.  He 
caught  her  arm,  pulled  her  up,  and  dragged  both  her 
and  the  child  back  to  his  own  side  of  the  road.  The 
traffic  moved  on  and  no  one  seemed  to  have  seen  what 
had  happened.  The  child  saw  her  opportunity  and 
dashed  over  in  safety,  leaving  Rene  and  the  young 
woman  together. 

"A  near  thing  that,"  said  he. 

"I  think  I've  hurt  my  foot.  I  slipped  on  the  tram- 
line. They  do  stick  up  just  here." 

"Can  you  walk?" 

She  tried,  but  twisted  up  her  face  with  the  pain  of  it. 

"O-o-oh !    Crimes !    Let  me  hold  on  to  you." 

He  supported  her,  and  she  found  that  she  could  just 
hobble. 

"Rotten  luck!"  she  said.  "I  was  going  to  a  dance. 
Don't  you  love  dancing?  Just  like  me,  though;  if 
there's  ever  any  trouble  going,  I  get  it.  I  shall  have 
to  go  home  now." 

"Is  it  far?" 

"Not  far.  The  busses  go  by.  Any  old  bus  from 
that  corner."  They  had  come  to  a  circus  where  many 

1 66 


ADVENTURE  IN  LONDON 

roads  meet.  "Mitcham  Mews.  Number  six.  Don't 
you  trouble.  You  just  put  me  into  the  bus." 

"But  I  must  see  you  home." 

"I  'spect  you  got  someone  waiting  for  you.  'Tain't 
fair  to  spoil  your  fun." 

"This  is  much  better  fun  than  anything  I  can  im- 
agine doing!" 

"  'Tain't  my  idea  of  fun,  helping  a  lame  duck  over 
a  stile.  It's  good  of  you,  anyway.  Penny  fare." 

They  boarded  a  bus  and  she  leaned  down  and 
prodded  at  her  ankle  to  discover  where  and  how  much 
it  hurt. 

"It's  only  ricked,  I  think,"  she  said.  "It  feels  like 
your  neck  when  your  head  goes  gammy.  I  don't  think 
it's  a  sprain." 

Rene  was  filled  with  admiration  of  her  vivacious 
prettiness.  She  had  an  oval  face;  a  dark  complexion 
beautifully  colored,  ivory  most  delicately  colored  with 
crimson ;  wide-set  eyes  that  were  still  merry  in  spite  of 
the  pain  smoldering  in  them ;  a  pouting  mouth  that,  as 
she  talked,  showed  perfect  teeth,  small  and  even  bril- 
liant, strong  as  an  animal's  dark  hair  neatly  arranged 
under  a  rather  common  hat.  She  had  a  necklet  of 
imitation  pearls  round  her  soft  throat.  Her  dress  was 
neat,  but  just  a  little  shabby.  She  laughed  lightly,  and 
her  laughter  lit  up  her  face  with  a  radiant  happiness. 

"What  you  might  call  being  thrown  together,' '  she  said. 

He  could  not  but  smile  with  her. 

"I'm  rather  glad,"  he  answered.  "Do  you  know 
that  I  hadn't  spoken  to  a  soul  but  a  railway  porter  and 
a  policeman  since  early  morning?" 

167 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"Reely,"  said  she.  "I  think  I'd  die  if  I  couldn't  talk. 
Here's  where  we  get  off.  O-o-oh !" 

She  hung  more  heavily  on  his  arm  as  they  descend- 
ed. They  stood  for  a  moment  to  watch  the  bus  jolt 
back  into  its  top  gear  and  go  roaring  up  the  wide  and 
almost  empty  street. 

"It's  not  far." 

They  moved  slowly  for  some  fifty  yards,  past  empty 
shops,  until  they  came  to  an  archway  plastered  on 
either  side  with  the  bills  of  local  music-halls,  and  lit 
with  an  old  gas-jet.  Through  the  archway  they 
turned  and  came  to  a  dark  place,  very  quiet,  with  long 
low  buildings  on  either  side  of  it,  and  a  great  litter  of 
paper  and  refuse  on  the  pavement,  and  handcarts  and 
vans  uptilted.  The  ground  floors  of  the  buildings  were 
all  taken  up  with  doors,  the  first  floors  with  little  win- 
dows, in  some  of  which  were  flower-boxes  and  bird- 
cages and  hanging  ferns.  One  or  two  of  the  windows 
were  lit  up.  From  the  other  end,  far  up,  came  the 
glaring  lights  of  a  motor-car.  It  stopped,  and  they 
could  hear  the  purr  of  its  sweetly  running  engine. 

"That's  Mr.  Ripley,"  said  the  young  woman.  "He's 
often  out  at  night.  He's  a  oner,  he  is.  Down  to 
Brighton  and  back  and  all  that,  you  know." 

Rene  did  not  know,  but  he  was  pleased  and  excited. 
London  had  ceased  to  be  a  spectacle  to  him.  He  had 
been  drawn  into  an  adventure,  taken  to  a  place  where 
people  lived — and  a  very  strange  place — the  friendli- 
est of  hands  was  on  his  arm,  the  cheeriest  of  voices 
ringing  in  his  ears. 


168 


II 

MITCHAM  MEWS 

Do  not  her  dark  eyes  tell  thee  thou  art  not  despised  ?  The 
Heaven's  messenger !  All  Heaven's  blessings  be  hers. 

T'M  sorry,"  she  said,  "but  you'll  have  to  help  me 
•*•  upstairs.  Wasn't  I  a  fool  to  go  and  get  tripped  up 
like  that  ?— O-o-h !  Hercules !" 

Rene  took  her  in  his  arms  and  carried  her  up  the 
narrow  little  stairs.  She  opened  the  door  and  asked 
him  to  come  in  and  have  a  cup  of  tea.  After  she  had 
put  the  kettle  on  and  lit  the  gas  she  sat  and  took  a  long 
look  at  him. 

"I  like  you,"  she  said.  "And  I  suppose  I  shan't  see 
you  again.  That's  always  the  way.  The  people  you 
like  best  you  see  only  once,  or  in  the  train,  or  going  by 
in  a  bus.  Is  it  far  where  you  live?" 

"I  don't  know  where  I  live." 

"Go  on.    I'm  not  that  sort." 

"It's  true.  I've  only  just  come  to  London.  This 
morning." 

"Leave  your  things  at  the  station?" 

"Things?    No,  I  didn't  bring  any." 

"Well!    I  never!" 

She  shrugged  her  amazement  away,  his  adventures 
being  no  business  of  hers. 

169 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

After  she  had  made  the  tea  she  removed  her  shoes 
and  stockings  and  examined  her  ankle.  It  was  in- 
flamed and  slightly  swollen.  She  made  him  rub  it, 
giving  little  gasps  as  he  touched  or  wrenched  the  sore- 
ness. 

"  'Tisn't  a  sprain  ?  You  don't  think  it's  a  sprain  ? 
I  don't  care  as  long  as  it  isn't  a  sprain." 

"No,  I  shouldn't  think  it's  a  sprain ;  but  you'd  better 
ask  someone  else." 

"Are  you  Scotch?" 

"No.    Why  do  you  ask?" 

"You  talk  funny.    I  say  arsk." 

"My  home's  up  north." 

"Home.    Father  and  mother  ?" 

"Well— no.    A  wife  and  all  that." 

"O-o-h!    Married?" 

She  looked  unhappy  and  uncomfortable  for  a  mo- 
ment. Then  she  said : 

"I  shouldn't  have  thought  it.  You  look  so  young. 
What  did  you  do?" 

"Lectured  and  took  pupils  at  the  university." 

"College?  I  know.  There's  a  big  school  just  round 
here.  I  suppose  it's  something  like  that.  I  seen  the 
teachers.  Half-baked  they  look,  some  of  them.  Was 
that  it?" 

"I  don't  know  what  it  was.  Things  came  to  a 
head  suddenly.  I  was  taken  by  surprise.  I  think 
it  will  take  me  some  time  to  realize  quite  what  has 
happened." 

She  asked  his  name.  He  gave  it  and  she  hers,  Ann 
Pidduck,  and  she  worked  in  a  factory,  pickles  and  con- 

170 


MITCHAM  MEWS 

diments,  at  the  packing,  putting  wooden  boxes  together 
with  a  machine  that  drove  in  four  nails  at  a  time.  Once 
she  had  been  ill  and  sent  away  and  taught  the  artificial 
flowers,  and  she  did  that  too,  in  her  spare  time,  for 
some  hat-shops  in  the  High  Street,  and  for  one  or  two 
ladies  she  knew.  She  used  to  live  at  home  with  her 
mother,  who  had  turned  religious  and  couldn't  put  up 
with  a  bit  of  fun.  And  she  had  a  friend  who  lived  in 
these  rooms  when  there  were  still  horses  in  the  mews, 
but  the  friend  had  gone  out  to  Canada  on  a  farm, 
"where  you  get  married  at  once  if  you're  anything 
like."  She  broke  off  her  story : 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Well,  you  can't  just  sit  and  look  at  London  till  it 
begins  to  look  at  you." 

"No." 

"You  look  as  if  you'd  like  to  sit  there  forever  and 
ever.  Oh,  you  do  look  tired,  poor  thing!  But  keep 
awake  a  little,  there's  a  dear.  I  must  know  what  I'm 
going  to  do  with  you." 

He  could  hardly  keep  his  attention  fixed  on  what 
she  was  saying,  but  he  fastened  his  eyes  on  her  to  make 
her  understand  that  he  was  listening. 

"You  don't  want  to  go  home ?    No?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Popped  the  lid  on  it,  have  you?" 

He  nodded. 

"Got  any  money  ?" 

"In  a  bank." 

"All  right.  You'll  want  clothes  and  things.  You 
171 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

can  write.  Only  I  want  to  know;  it's  nothing  I 
.shouldn't  like?  Is  it?" 

"No." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  tell  me,  but  I  wouldn't  like  to 
think  you'd  done  something  you'd  be  sorry  for.  .  .  . 
You  haven't  drunk  your  tea.  I  say,  you  haven't  drunk 
your  tea.  Asleep.  I'm  off.  Good  night." 

And  she  limped  away  into  the  inner  room. 

When  he  awoke  the  next  day  he  remembered  that 
she  had  come  to  him  in  the  morning,  shaken  him  out 
of  his  deep  sleep,  and  made  him  understand  that  he 
could  have  her  bed,  sent  him  staggering  toward  it,  and 
then,  as  he  sank  back  into  unconsciousness,  he  remem- 
bered hearing  the  door  slam. 

She  had  laid  breakfast  for  him,  tea,  bread  and  but- 
ter, and  an  egg  lying  ready  to  be  boiled  in  a  saucepan. 
He  was  at  first  petulant  at  her  absence,  but  shook 
himself  up  enough  to  see  that  he  was  not  in  a  position 
to  feel  any  such  thing,  and  to  be  amazed  at  his  own 
acquiescence  in  the  unexpected.  It  was  somehow  dis- 
reputable, this  discovery  of  himself  in  a  strange  room 
after  two  nights  spent  in  his  clothes.  He  had  not 
even  removed  his  boots.  His  gratitude  to  Ann  Pid- 
duck  was  appreciably  lessened  as  he  remembered  that 
she  had  not  thought  to  take  them  off  for  him.  To 
put  a  man  in  her  bed  with  his  boots  on !  That  was,  to 
say  the  least  of  it,  distasteful.  It  was  sufficiently 
against  the  grain  of  his  physical  and  mental  habits  to 
send  his  thoughts  flying  back  to  the  life  he  had  left, 
but  they  were  caught  in  the  mists  of  the  excitement 

172 


MITCHAM  MEWS 

and  pain  through  which  he  had  passed,  and  he  relapsed 
into  an  insensate  pondering,  forgot  his  breakfast,  his 
surroundings,  and  sat  unheeding  through  the  day,  until 
Ann  returned  in  the  evening.  She  brought  flowers. 

"Well,  of  all  the "  she  cried.  "I  did  think  you'd 

have  cleared  away.  Why,  you  haven't  touched  your 
breakfast.  Haven't  you  been  out  ?" 

He  had  not  exactly  forgotten  her.  Indeed,  he  had 
been  awaiting  her  coming,  but  now  he  was  puzzled 
because  her  return  was  so  expected,  and  it  ought  to 
have  been  unexpected.  He  felt  injured,  that  he  had 
been  cheated,  that  things  on  this  side  of  his  crisis  were 
too  much  like  things  on  the  other  side :  a  woman,  habit, 
meals,  interest  in  his  appetite. 

"Wake  up,  stoopid,"  said  Ann.  "You'll  be  wasting 
off  like  the  niggers  in  Africa  if  you  don't  wake  up. 
You  can't  go  sleeping  on  forever." 

"Can't  I?" 

"Well,  you  can,  of  course,  but  if  you  do,  I'll  be 
thinking  you're  a  case.  You're  not  a  case,  are  you? 
You  weren't  last  night." 

She  spoke  as  though  to  be  called  a  case  was  the 
horridest  of  insults,  and  he  took  it  as  such  and  roused 
himself  not  to  deserve  it. 

"That's  better,"  she  said.    "Nothing  to  eat  all  day." 

"No.    Nothing." 

She  pondered  that. 

"I  expect  your  stomach  knows  best.  Now,  then,  stir 
yourself.  You  got  to  write  home." 

She  gave  him  writing  materials  and  he  drew  up  to 
the  table  and  sat  staring  at  the  blank  sheet  of  paper. 

173 


He  took  pen  in  hand,  but  could  not  write,  could  not 
concentrate  his  will  even  that  much. 

"What  am  I  to  say?"  he  asked. 

"Don't  you  know?" 

"No." 

"Well,  I'm  blowed !  If  you  aren't  the  funniest.  .  .  : 
It's  to  your  wife!  Don't  you  know  what  to  say  to 
your  wife?" 

He  wrote : 

"Dear  Linda " 

Then  he  thought  of  Linda  in  a  friendly,  distant 
fashion,  as  someone  charming  and  taking  whom  he  had 
known,  of  whom  it  was  pleasant  to  think. 

"Dear  Linda,  Linda  Brock,  Lin " 

Ann  saw  his  hesitation,  and  suggested : 

"You  want  your  clothes." 

He  wrote  down : 

"I  want  my  clothes.  I  don't  think  I  want  my  books. 
You  can  sell  the  car.  You  gave  me  a  nice  picture  once 
by  some  German.  I  think  I  should  like  you  to  send 
that.  I  have  been  walking  about  London.  It  is  very 
wonderful.  A  railway  porter  was  nice  to  me,  and 
there  are  other  friendly  people." 

He  stopped.    Ann  said : 

"The  address  is  6  Mitcham  Mews,  West  Kensing- 
ton." 

He  wrote  that  down.  There  was  something  else  he 
wanted  to  say,  but  he  could  not  fix  in  his  mind  a  suffi- 
cient image  of  Linda  to  be  able  to  write  to  her.  So  he 
gave  it  up  presently  and  only  added :  "That's  all,"  and 
his  signature. 

174 


MITCHAM  MEWS 

The  letter  was  addressed  and  stamped,  and  Ann,  still 
limping,  took  it  to  the  post. 

When  she  returned,  she  said : 

"I've  fixed  you  up.  You're  to  sleep  with  Jimmy  at 
No.  10  until  your  things  come,  and  then  we'll  begin 
to  think.  You're  not  much  use  to  anybody  now,  are 
you?" 

"No,"  said  he.  Then  he  began  to  stammer  out  an 
apology. 

"Silly,"  said  Ann.  "Just  a  lost  boy,  that's  what  you 
are.  Lucky  for  you  it  was  me  and  not  the  police  found 
you.  They'd  have  sent  you  back  where  you  came 
from."  She  saw  that  it  was  useless  to  joke  with  Rene 
and  soon  dropped  her  bantering  tone.  She  took  him 
for  a  walk  round  the  houses,  and  was  delighted  when 
he  remembered  that  he  must  have  a  clean  collar  and  a 
toothbrush ;  a  return  to  grace,  or  sense. 

"Oh!  I'd  be  sorry  now  if  it  wasn't  true,  and  you 
went  back." 

"I  shan't  go  back." 

Her  question,  the  necessity  of  responding  to  her 
spontaneity,  brought  back  in  a  sudden  flood  his  will, 
and  he  had  a  quick  pleasure  in  feeling  the  air  upon  his 
face  and  seeing  the  evening  color  of  the  streets. 

"No.  I  shan't  go  back.  People  can't  go  back.  But 
my  father  went  back." 

"Why  did  you  say  that?" 

"What  did  I  say?" 

"  'But  my  father  went  back.'  " 

"Did  I  ?  I  didn't  know  I  said  that.  I  didn't  know  I 
even  thought  of  him." 

175 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"I  know,"  said  Ann.  "It's  like  suddenly  finding 
yourself  talking  aloud.  And  don't  you  feel  a  fool  if 
there's  anybody  listening?" 

They  bought  collar,  toothbrush,  pajamas,  and  a  red 
sausage  for  supper.  With  these  they  returned  to 
Mitcham  Mews  and  had  to  wait  up  until  Jimmy  at 
No.  10  turned  up.  He  did  so  about  one  o'clock,  a 
strange  figure  strutting  up  the  mews,  beaming  all  over 
his  face,  and  humming : 

Can  you  see  me,   gray  eyes, 
Hiding  in  the  tree, 
Waiting  for  the  moonrise? 
Gray  eyes,  look  at  me, 
In  the  apple-tree. 

Apple-tree,  apple-tree. 

He  had  on  a  mortar-board  cap,  a  white  collar  reach- 
ing up  to  his  ears,  an  enormous  black  bow  tie,  a  red 
satin  waistcoat  hung  with  chains,  and  his  face  was 
blacked  except  for  one  eye  and  a  quarter  of  an  inch 
all  round  his  mouth.  He  carried  a  banjo.  As  he  saw 
Ann  he  drew  his  hand  across  the  strings  and  croaked 
out  in  a  hoarse  voice : 

"Give  us  a  kiss,  old  dear,  I'm  that  hellish  dry." 

"Oh,  go  on.  You  got  to  behave  yourself  now, 
Jimmy,  now  you  got  a  lodger." 

"Like  old  times,"  said  Jimmy.  "  Ma  had  lodgers. 
What  Ma  didn't  know  about  lodgers " 

"Give  it  a  rest,"  said  Ann.  "Do  keep  off  the  comic 
for  a  bit.  Mr.  Fourmy  wants  to  get  to  bed.  So  do  I, 
and  you'll  have  the  neighbors  up,  the  way  voices  go 
ringing  up  the  mews.  Good  night." 

176 


MITCHAM  MEWS 

She  turned  away. 

"Good  night,  old  gal,"  said  Jimmy,  and  he  led  Rene 
up  the  stairs  of  No.  10.  "Good  sort,  that  gal.  Likes 
her  bit  o'  fun  same  as  any  gal,  but  she's  a  tiddler,  she 
is.  Independent !  I  don't  fink.  Gals  look  arter  their- 
selves  nowadays.  Cos  why?  Cos  they're  three  to  one. 
We  don't  go  round,  us  men.  What  a  awful  thought! 

There's  your  bed,  Mr.  What's  your  name? 

'Ardly  a  gent's  bed,  but  you  can  lie  on  it,  and  what 
more  can  be  said  of  any  bed?" 

He  went  into  the  inner  room  and  began  undressing, 
talking  all  the  while,  explaining  that  minstrelsy  was 
only  one  of  his  professions,  that  he  had  had  a  rotten 
day,  not  a  smile  in  the  world;  that  he  wouldn't  try 
again  for  a  week,  not  if  he  starved;  that  Mr.  Fourmy 
must  be  prepared  for  a  shock  when  he  saw  him  with- 
out his  black,  as  it  made  such  a  difference,  and  that 
there  was  a  silver  lining  to  every  cloud.  He  got  into 
bed  without  removing  his  black,  for  Rene  heard  no 
sound  of  water,  and  talked  himself  to  sleep.  .  .  .  Rene 
lay  sleepless,  this  third  night  of  his  adventure,  and 
rejoiced  as  one  who  had  awakened  from  a  long  and 
painful  dream.  Jimmy  amused  him,  Ann  amused  him, 
and  all  amusement  was  new -to  him. 

Jimmy  woke  up  talking,  ran  out  in  nightshirt  and 
trousers,  and  returned  with  a  jug  of  beer  and  a  loaf  of 
bread.  That  was  breakfast.  He  sat  on  Rene's  bed  and 
they  consumed  their  fare  together. 

"Gardening  to-day,"  said  Jimmy.  "Ladies  all  want 
their  gardens  dug  up  these  days.  I  got  two  or  three 

177 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

gardens.  They  call  me  Gardener,  though  I  ain't  no 
blooming  gardener.  'D'you  think  sweet  peas  will  do 
in  the  smoke,  gardener?'  they  say.  I  dunno,  but  I 
sticks  'em  all  in.  They  gets  it  all  out  of  a  book,  and 
what's  good  enough  for  them  is  good  enough  for  me. 
Gardener !  Well,  here's  luck !" 

And  Rene  said :    "Here's  luck !" 

When  he  was  washed,  Jimmy  appeared  as  a  sandy- 
haired  man  with  a  fuchsia-colored  face,  f attish,  shape- 
less, with  little  twinkling,  blinking  eyes.  Round  and 
ball-like  his  head  was,  round  and  ball-like  his  body,  and 
he  bounced  in  all  his  movements.  He  was  grotesque, 
but  not  so  grotesque  as  the  idea  Rene  had  of  him,  the 
idea  which  haunted  him  as  he  sat  alone  in  the  scantily- 
furnished  room,  with  no  desire  to  go  out  or  to  claim 
with  the  world  any  relationship  but  those  which  chance 
had  thrown  his  way,  with  Ann  and  the  minstrel-gar- 
dener. He  spent  many  hours  gazing  out  of  the  win- 
dow at  the  children  playing  in  the  litter  and  adding  to 
it.  There  were  swarms  of  children;  little  girls  in 
charge  of  babies,  not  so  very  much  smaller  than  them- 
selves; boys  tirelessly  passing  from  one  game  to  an- 
other, stopping  only  when  a  car  came  up  the  mews 
or  was  brought  out  to  be  sluiced  down  or  oiled.  There 
were  one  or  two  men  who  sat  all  day  as  listless  as 
himself.  They  smoked,  chewed  straws,  occasionally 
talked,  disappeared  at  intervals  round  the  corner,  but 
returned  to  smoke,  chew  straws,  and  talk  occasionally. 
They  were  unconcerned,  inattentive,  and  unmoved. 
Rene  saw  one  of  them  earn  a  coin  of  some  sort  by 
holding  a  tool  for  a  chauffeur  while  he  groped  in  his 

178 


MITCHAM  MEWS 

engine.  There  were  women  who  sat  in  the  windows 
for  hours  together,  gazing  out  with  unseeing  eyes; 
other  women  who  stood  in  the  doors  and  talked.  One 
young  woman  in  the  evening  came  and  stood  in  a  door- 
way with  a  baby  in  her  arms.  The  light  had  grown 
very  soft.  It  fell  upon  her,  and  surrounded  her  with 
an  atmosphere  that  gave  her  beauty.  Rene's  eyes  rest- 
ed on  her  gladly,  but  without  conscious  appreciation. 
Then,  very  slowly,  he  began  to  see  something  that  ap- 
pealed to  him  and  accounted  for  her  fascination:  the 
line  of  her  body  drooping  under  the  weight  of  the 
child  in  her  arms,  her  whole  body  one  unconscious, 
comforting  caress  of  protection.  While  she  stood  there 
Rene  saw  nothing  else,  and  he  watched  her  until  the 
light  faded  and  she  disappeared,  slipped  away  like  a 
vision,  into  the  darkness.  Somehow  he  felt  that  his 
day  had  not  been  in  vain. 

Ann  came  to  inspect  his  quarters  and  to  take  him 
out.  He  was  very  happy  to  see  her,  and  she  seemed  to 
feel  it,  for  she  said: 

"I  knew  you'd  be  better  to-day.  A  good  night's  rest. 
That's  what  you  wanted.  But  I  was  afraid  Jimmy 
would  keep  you  up  with  his  nonsense." 

"He  made  me  laugh,"  said  Rene. 

She  gave  a  little  crow  of  pleasure : 

"Good  old  Jimmy!"  she  cried. 

Then  she  asked  him  had  he  seen  anyone  that  day, 
and  he  described  some  of  the  people  he  had  seen.  As 
he  described  she  told  histories,  so  that  presently  for 
Rene  Mitcham  Mews  seemed  a  place  bursting  with  hu- 
man energy,  passions,  disasters,  jokes,  follies,  and 

179 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

frailties — just  the  sort  of  place  he  had  been  seeking. 
There  was  Old  Lunt,  who  sold  ballads  and  wrote  let- 
ters for  the  people  who  had  never  learned  to  write; 
there  was  Maggie,  who  went  out  as  a  midwife  to  keep 
the  families  of  her  two  daughters;  Bellfield  the  furni- 
ture-remover, who  had  a  strange  young  man  come  to 
see  him  sometimes,  who  was  like  no  one  else  in  the 
world ;  Mr.  Martin,  who  used  to  keep  the  livery  at  the 
end  of  the  mews  and  had  now  gone  in  for  taxicabs; 
Fat  Bessie,  who  went  out  charring  and  had  an  idiot  son 
to  whom  her  whole  life  was  devoted ;  Billy  and  Click, 
who  were  wrong  'uns,  dirty  wrong  'uns,  but  too  clever 
to  be  caught,  though  they  would  be  one  day. 

"A  bright  lot,"  said  Ann.  "And  then,  of  course, 
there's  me — and  you.  They'll  laugh  at  you  at  first. 
They  laugh  at  everything  and  everybody  new.  But 
you  mustn't  mind  that.  They'll  borrow  money  from 
you,  but  don't  you  never  lend  them  more  than  six- 
pence, if  it's  Maggie  or  Bessie ;  twopence  if  it's  any  of 
the  men." 

"And  who,"  asked  Rene,  "is  the  girl  with  the 
baby?" 

"Oh,  that's  Rita.  Baby?  She's  got  four,  and  an- 
other coming.  She's  all  right.  Bit  washed  out  with 
it.  Makes  her  stupid  and  sly.  But  she's  all  right,  and 
Joe's  a  good  sort.  One  o'  them  as  is  always  in  and 
out  of  work.  I  dunno  why.  I  think  he's  the  sort  as 
can't  work  with  a  beast  above  him.  'Lectrician.  If 
you  want  a  feller  to  talk,  he's  the  one." 

"I  think  your  talk's  about  as  good  as  I  could  have, 
Ann." 

180 


MITCHAM  MEWS 

Her  face  lighted  up. 

"Is  it?  I  am  glad.  Ooh!  It  is  nice  to  have  you 
call  me  that.  D'you  know,  I  couldn't  stop  thinking  of 
you  all  day  long.  And  it  didn't  stop  me  working 
neither.  I  did  best  day  I've  done  for  a  long  time." 

"And  all  day  long  I  looked  out  of  the  window." 


Ill 

MR.  MARTIN 

The  innocencie  that  is  in  me  is  a  kinde  of  simple-plaine 
innocencie  without  vigor  or  art. 


T 


HE  next  morning  brought  a  letter  from  Professor 
Smallman : 


"My  DEAR  FOURMY, — My  first  impulse  was  to  come  down 
and  implore  you  to  return,  to  think  of  your  career,  or,  if 
you  are  incapable  of  doing  that,  of  us,  to  whom  your  career 
and,  I  may  say,  your  happiness,  are  things  of  some  moment. 
Linda  forbade  me  to  do  that.  She  is  well,  but  shows  signs 
of  strain.  Frankly,  I  can  understand  neither  of  you.  Bit- 
terness, grievances  keep  men  and  women  apart,  but  neither 
of  these  is  in  her.  She  alarms  me.  She  seems  to  me  to  be 
grappling  with  an  emotional  situation  with  her  intellect. 
That  seems  to  me  to  be  dangerous.  She  said  of  you :  'His 
intellect  only  comes  into  play  when  he  is  emotionally  sure/ 
and  gave  me  that,  which  I  do  not  pretend  to  understand, 
as  a  reason  for  letting  you  go  your  way.  I  cannot  do  that 
without  protest.  She  says:  'Men  and  women  have  the  right 
to  adjust  their  own  difficulties  and  repair  their  own  mis- 
takes without  reference  to  outside  opinion,  or,  indeed,  out- 
side affection.'  I  cannot  agree.  My  feeling  is  all  against 
it.  When  a  man  and  woman  marry,  they  create  a  social 
entity  which  they  are  not  entitled  to  destroy  without  con- 
sulting society.  That  is  putting  it  at  its  very  lowest,  with- 

182 


MR.  MARTIN 

out  thinking  for  a  moment  of  the  spiritual  entity  which 
marriage  creates.  You  two  seem  to  have  agreed  to  dis- 
regard that " 

Rene  read  no  more.  The  old  exasperation  that  the 
well-meaning  Smallman  had  roused  in  him  surged 
through  him  now,  and  he  took  pen  and  paper  and 
wrote : 

"My  DEAR,  GOOD,  KINDLY  IDIOT, — When  no  spiritual  entity 
is  created,  then  no  social  entity  is  created;  nothing  is 
created  but  an  amorphous  relationship  which  is  hostile  to 
society,  and  such  relationships  it  is  the  duty  of  decent  peo- 
ple to  avoid  and  to  destroy.  Nothing  is  created,  and  if  by 
good  luck  the  calamity  of  having  children  is  averted,  then 
there  is  nothing  to  destroy;  then  those  who  are  apart  in 
fact  are  better  also  apart  in  appearance." 

So,  with  a  startling  suddenness  he  was  driven  to  a 
conclusion,  and  knew  that,  come  what  might,  he  would 
abide  by  it.  What  Smallman  had  said  of  Linda 
strengthened  him,  gave  him  a  clearer  idea  of  her  than 
he  had  ever  had,  an  idea,  moreover,  in  which  with 
heart  and  mind  he  could  rejoice.  There  was  fight  in 
her,  too. 

He  took  up  the  Professor's  letter  once  more.  It  was 
rather  a  good  letter,  ably  setting  out  everything  to  be 
considered,  the  various  interests  that  would  be  injured 
— relations,  friends,  the  university,  the  little  commu- 
nity of  cultured  persons  who  would  be  delivered  up  to 
coarse,  commercial  Thrigsby  and  its  tongues.  Clearly 
Smallman's  dread  was  lest  all  these  interests  should  be 
drawn  down  in  the  wreck  of  the  young  couple's  mar- 

183 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

riage,  and  Rene  could  shudder  and  sympathize  at  the 
suffering  and  distress  he  might  be  causing.  His  reso- 
lution weakened  a  little  until  he  thought  of  Linda,  and 
then  he  said : 

"But  we  are  saving  ourselves.  The  marriage  goes 
to  hell  or  we  do.  They  can't  have  both." 

Smallman's  letter  ended  with  a  sentence  worth  the 
whole  of  the  rest.  It  was  as  though  he  had  written 
himself  into  something  near  imaginative  perception 
and  true  friendship : 

"But,  my  dear  fellow,  if  you  are  resolved  to  continue 
in  this  blind  and  cruel  folly,  I  can  only  pray  and  hope 
that  the  tragic  trial  it  must  be  may  make  a  man  of 
you.  Though  you  may  be  lost  to  us,  I  will  pray,  I  be- 
lieve in  you  enough  to  think,  that  you  will  not  be  alto- 
gether lost." 

Rene  tore  up  his  first  indignant  note,  and  wrote  an- 
other, saying  how  much  he  appreciated  the  friendship 
and  affection,  how  it  had  become  impossible  to  turn 
back,  and  how  it  pleased  him  to  know  that  between 
himself  and  those  who  had  been  his  friends  there 
would  be  the  separation  of  circumstance,  not  that  of 
enmity  and  bitterness. 

This  done,  he  posted  his  reply  and  wired  to  his  bank 
in  Thrigsby  to  find  out  how  much  money  he  pos- 
sessed. 

He  received  the  answer  later  when  he  was  with  Ann 
at  tea :  Fifty-five  pounds. 

"Je-rusalem !"  she  cried. 

"I  spent  very  little,"  he  explained,  "and  my  wife  had 
seven  hundred  a  year." 

184 


MR.  MARTIN 

"Seven  hundred!"  She  was  scared.  "Seven  hun- 
dred! And  you  chucked  that  to  come  and  live  in 
Mitcham  Mews !  Well,  no  wonder  they  say  the  world's 
going  balmy." 

She  was  both  relieved  and  awed  by  his  vast  wealth, 
and  allowed  him  to  take  her  to  a  music-hall,  where  her 
pleasure  brimmed  over  so  that  he  could  share  it. 

The  fifty-five  pounds  changed  her  attitude  toward 
him  somewhat,  made  her  more  sure  of  him,  relieved 
her,  perhaps,  of  anxiety.  She  lost  the  nervous  dis- 
comfort that  had  shown  itself  in  deference  toward 
him,  and  she  could  now  consider  him  as  a  practical 
proposition  and  no  longer  as  the  delightful  but  alarm- 
ing perplexity  he  had  been.  She  had  time  to  breathe, 
to  let  things  go  their  own  way,  until  it  became  neces- 
sary to  do  something.  She  asked  him  questions  about 
his  old  life  to  discover  any  talent  or  capacity  that  might 
be  turned  to  account. 

"If  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst,"  she  said,  "I 
could  teach  you  the  paper  flowers.  You  could  do  a  lot 
in  the  daytime,  and  I'm  sure  we  could  sell  most  of 
them." 

He  was  quite  prepared  to  make  paper  flowers.  He 
was  so  fascinated  by  her  capacity  for  the  rough  busi- 
ness of  living  and  for  extracting  enjoyment  out 
of  almost  everything  she  touched,  that  he  was  her 
admiring  pupil,  to  be  and  do  anything  she  might 
expect. 

At  the  music-hall  a  comedian  had  made  the  audience 
scream  with  laughter  by  his  antic  burlesque  of  a  mo- 

185 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

torist.  Rene  was  amused,  but  never  smiled.  Ann 
turned  to  him  in  some  distress  and  said : 

"Don't  you  think  it's  funny?" 

She  had  laughed  till  the  tears  were  streaming  down 
her  cheeks. 

"It's  quite  funny,  but  so  old-fashioned.  Cars  don't 
break  down  like  that  now.  I  have  driven  hundreds  of 
miles  and  never  been  stopped  on  the  road." 

"Oh,  did  you  drive  a  car  ?" 

"Yes.    A  little  one." 

"Then  we'll  go  and  see  Mr.  Martin." 

And  with  this  suggestion  also  he  complied. 

At  the  other  end  the  mews  were  approached  by  a 
wide  street  flanked  by  little  houses  which  were  let  off 
in  flats  and  rooms;  two  flats  of  four  rooms  in  each 
house.  Mr.  Martin  lived  in  the  last  house,  had  always 
lived  there  since  the  houses  were  built,  because  it  was 
next  to  his  livery  stables  and  convenient,  for  he  had  so 
much  flesh  to  carry  that  he  carried  it  as  little  as  pos- 
sible. He  rose  early  in  the  morning  and  rolled  into 
the  glass  office  in  his  yard,  where  there  were  still  two 
horses,  a  victoria,  and  a  closed  carriage,  which  he  kept, 
partly  because  he  could  not  bear  to  be  without  a  horse, 
and  partly  because  he  still  had  some  small  business 
with  old  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  his  former  connec- 
tion who  disliked  motors,  or  could  not  conceive  of 
ceremonious  visiting  except  in  a  horse-drawn  vehicle. 
Besides,  he  had  three  taxicabs,  and  had  drifted  into  a 
trade  in  accessories  and  sundries  with  the  chauffeurs 
in  the  mews,  the  nearest  garage  being  half  a  mile  away 

186 


MR.  MARTIN 

and  beyond  their  walking  distance.  He  knew  everyone 
in  the  mews,  and  everyone  liked  him,  and  as  he  sat 
in  his  office  all  day  long  he  had  a  succession  of  visi- 
tors. A  groom  and  a  boy  composed  his  staff,  and  the 
boy  was  mostly  away  on  errands  for  Mr.  Martin's 
housekeeping,  because  he  would  not  admit  any  woman 
to  his  house.  Such  cleaning  as  it  got  was  done  by 
the  groom.  Not  that  Martin  disliked  women ;  he  was 
fond  of  them,  but  he  was  afraid  of  them. 

"Let  'em  set  foot  in  your  house,"  he  used  to  say, 
"and  they'll  stay.  Once  let  'em  start  doing  for  you 
and  they  do  for  you  altogether." 

(He  had  been  married  to  an  extraordinarily  capable 
woman  and  could  not  endure  a  sloven.) 

Ann  he  had  known  since  she  was  a  child,  when  he 
had  caught  her  in  bravado  stealing  a  horseshoe  "for 
luck"  out  of  his  yard.  And  he  had  carried  her  and 
her  booty  into  his  house  to  show  his  wife  the  little  girl 
who  was  braver  than  the  boys  who  had  egged  her  on 
to  do  it;  for  the  boys  had  scuttled  away  on  his  ap- 
proach. Then  his  wife  had  tied  the  horseshoe  up  with 
a  pink  ribbon  and  sent  proud  Ann  away  with  it  and  a 
halfpenny,  and  permission  to  visit  the  yard  whenever 
she  liked.  And  when  Mrs.  Martin  died  and  for  a 
whole  week  the  fat  man  sat  in  his  house  and  mourned, 
Ann  was  the  first  to  visit  him  and  bring  him  out  of  the 
lethargy  that  had  come  upon  him.  Later,  when  the 
livery  business  went  into  a  galloping  consumption,  it 
was  in  talk  with  Ann  that  Mr.  Martin  plucked  up  his 
energy  to  use  his  yard,  of  which  he  possessed  the 
freehold,  for  a  taxicab  business. 

187 


YOL       ,  EARNEST 

She  had  told  him  about  Rene,  who  received  a  warm 
welcome  when  she  took  him  into  the  office  one  evening. 
The  very  geniality  of  his  reception  made  Rene  shy,  and 
the  old  fellow  put  him  to  such  a  shrewd  scrutiny  that 
he  felt  he  was  being  weighed  up  and  measured  in  his 
worthiness  of  friendship  with  Ann. 

"Pleased  to  meet  you,  sir,"  wheezed  Mr.  Martin. 
"Any  friend  of  hers  is  a  friend  of  mine."  Then  he 
came  to  business.  He  knew  nothing  of  motor-cars 
himself,  but  the  cab  business  needed  likely  young  fel- 
lers, different  kind  of  feller  from  'orses;  they  needed 
'ands  and  a  heart  to  understand,  something  special,  an 
inborn  gift.  "Lookin'  at  you,  I  should  say  you  didn't 
'ave  it.  But  motors,  well,  that's  a  thing  you  can  learn. 
A  motor  can't  take  a  dislike  to  you  same  as  a  'orse,  and, 
likewise,  a  motor  can't  take  a  fancy  to  you  and  work 
'is  'eart  out  for  you,  same  as  a  'orse.  I've  'ad  'orses, 
if  you'll  believe  me,  as  it's  been  a  honor  to  drive,  and 
I've  never  'ad  a  'orse  as  could  abide  Mrs.  Martin,  God 
bless  'er !  It  was  a  great  grief  to  me,  that  was." 

Rene  had  been  primed  with  the  wonders  of  Mrs. 
Martin  and  Ann  had  told  him  the  story  of  the 
horseshoe,  and  he  was  able  to  sympathize  and 
show  his  sympathy.  He  set  his  case  before  Mr. 
Martin. 

"  'Tain't  many  men,"  said  the  livery-keeper,  "as 
turns  from  books  to  work.  'Tain't  many  as  can.  I 
seen  many  a  good  man  go  wrong  through  books — dis- 
contented, uppish,  faddy,  nothin'  good  enough.  But 
they  was  mostly  too  old  or  middle-aged.  When  a 
man  gets  idees,  there's  nothin'  to  be  done  with  him. 

188 


MR.  MARTIN 

That's  my  experience,  and  I  been  sitting  here  these 
forty  years.  But  perhaps  you're  young  enough." 

"Young  enough  to  try,  anyhow,"  said  Rene,  and 
that  brought  the  old  man  back  to  the  affair  of  the 
moment.  He  had  a  new  car  on  order,  and  when  it 
arrived  it  would  be  given  to  Casey,  and  then  Rene 
could  have  Casey's  machine,  a  Renault.  In  the  mean- 
time, it  would  be  necessary  for  him  to  study  up  the 
knowledge  of  London  preparatory  to  taking  out  his 
license.  Casey  would  tell  him  all  about  that,  and  if  he 
liked  he  could  come  into  the  office  and  help  with  the 
books  and  the  accessories  and  earn  fifteen  shillings  a 
week.  He  closed  with  that,  and  arranged  to  begin  the 
next  day,  coming  very  early  in  the  morning  so  that  he 
could  meet  Casey." 

"I  do  hope  you'll  like  it,"  said  Ann,  as  they  walked 
away. 

"I'm  sure  I  shall,"  said  he.  "I  like  the  old  fellow, 
and  I  must  do  something,  and  that's  better  than  black- 
ing my  face  and  gardening." 

She  laughed. 

"It  does  seem  queer,  after  all  your  book-learning." 

"When  I  look  back  on  it,  my  dear  Ann,  I  can  only 
remember  reading  one  book  with  pleasure  after  I  was 
a  child  and  did  everything  with  pleasure." 

"What  book  was  that?" 

"It  was  an  anthology.    Something  like  this  was  in  it : 

'And  there  shall  be  for  thee  all  soft  delight 
That  shadowy  thought  can  win, 

A  bright  torch,  and  a  casement  ope  at  night, 
To  let  the  warm  love  in.' " 

189 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"That's  pretty,"  said  Ann  Pidduck.  "There  are 
pretty  things  in  books,  though  I  never  read  them." 

Said  he: 

"I  never  had  the  feeling  of  it  until  now.  I  think 
something  went  wrong  with  me  that  I  couldn't  feel." 

"But  you  must  have,  to  suffer  like  you  did  and  run 
away." 

"I'm  beginning  to  think  that  I  ran  away  because  I 
couldn't  feel,  but  only  melt  into  a  sort  of  exasperated 
heat." 

"But  that's  like  when  you  lie  awake  when  you're 
very  young  and  fancy  no  one  wants  you,  and  simply 
long  for  someone  to  want  you  very  much.  Oh,  you 
do  make  me  go  on." 

"I'm  glad  you  do,  Ann.    I'm  glad  you  do." 

"I  dunno "  she  seemed  to  protest. 

"You  must  let  me  say  that  because  I  never  had  such 
a  friend  as  you." 

"Oh!  Oh!  The  world  seems  all  upside  down.  I 
oughtn't  to.  I  oughtn't  to  be  friends,  because  you  are 
different.  You  know  you  are.  It  isn't  the  same.  It 
isn't  like  having  a  bit  o'  fun,  and  since  you  came,  I'm 
off  my  bit  o'  fun." 

He  caught  her  hands,  and  in  the  confused  emotion 
that  had  seized  him,  tried  to  kiss  her;  but  she  broke 
away  and  ran  up  the  mews,  leaving  him  standing  under 
the  lamp  in  the  archway.  He  did  not  move.  He  was 
filled  with  a  sweet,  healing  tenderness  that  soothed  his 
trouble  and  made  him  feel  curiously  and  happily  sure 
of  himself,  and  his  mind  flew  back  to  the  book  from 
which  he  had  quoted,  and  to  all  the  associations  it  had 

190 


MR.  MARTIN 

brought  in  its  train.  And  he  had  lost  the  uncomfort- 
able sense  of  a  violent  change  in  his  life,  and  began  to 
perceive  the  inevitability  of  good  and  bad,  hope  and 
despond,  driving  him  on  to  adventure  and  through 
adventure  to  appreciation  of  the  mere  fact  of  living, 
so  that  the  things  that  happened  were  almost  without 
significance.  No  longer  did  he  have  any  dread  of  his 
fate;  up  or  down,  it  was  no  great  matter;  a  certain 
kind  of  agony  it  was  impossible,  it  was  vile  and  de- 
grading to  bear;  a  certain  kind  of  happiness  it  was 
worth  any  suffering,  any  bewilderment  to  find.  And 
yet  happiness  was  hardly  the  word  for  it.  Happiness 
was  associated  in  his  mind  with  being  content,  settled 
down,  established,  a  part  of  surrounding  circum- 
stances, without  reaction.  This  that  he  was  beginning 
to  perceive  necessitated  effort  and  will,  fierce  endeavor 
without  ceasing.  For  an  image  of  it  he  could  find 
nothing  better  than  tearing  about  the  country  with 
Kurt.  Only  that  was  aimless,  containing  nothing  but 
the  pleasure  of  the  moment  and  the  risk  of  disaster. 
The  conception  germinating  in  his  mind  had  all  the 
swiftness  and  the  peril,  but  it  had  also  immense  pur- 
pose, irresistible  force,  and  he  said  aloud : 

"Force!  Huge  force,  gripping  you,  holding  you, 
bearing  you  on  to  its  purpose  which  is  also  your  own, 
so  that  always  you  are  sure,  always  stronger  than 
yourself." 

Out  of  the  dark  archway  came  a  voice,  saying: 

"A  philosopher  in  the  slums." 

Rene  started,  and  groped  back  to  the  world  of  the 
senses.  A  tall  thin  figure  loomed  up  in  front  of  him, 

191 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

and  a  pale,  eager  face  with  a  jutting  nose  and  large 
eyes  smiled  at  him. 

"Kilner,  my  name,"  said  the  owner  of  it.  "I've  no- 
ticed you,  walking  about  in  a  hungry  dream.  Down 
on  your  luck?  So  am  I.  Best  of  luck  in  a  way. 
When  the  world  doesn't  want  you,  it  gives  you  time 
to  look  at  it  and  think  about  it,  and  discover  that  it  is 
really  good.  Otherwise  you  have  to  take  so  much  on 
hearsay,  and  then  of  course  you  are  not  entitled  to 
have  an  opinion  about  it,  much  less  any  feeling." 

"I  was  just  beginning  to  feel  extraordinarily  happy 
about  it  all,  though  I  have  come  to  grief,  and  am  a 
source  of  great  anxiety  to  my  friends." 

"Friends?  They  never  want  anything  but  one's 
external  comfort.  They  will  dine  with  you,  walk  with 
you,  talk  with  you,  sleep  with  you,  but  think  with  you, 
feel  with  you,  they  will  not.  It's  not  their  fault.  They 
don't  want  to  be  anything  but  charming.  We  who 
want  charm  only  with  truth  find  ourselves  in  trouble 
in  no  time  at  all.  What  did  you  try  to  do  ?" 

"I  got  married." 

"Oh !  Is  that  all  ?  I  thought  you  must  be  a  painter 
or  a  writer  or — I'm  a  painter.  But  I  can't  sell  a  damn 
thing,  so  I  work  for  a  furniture-dealer  until  I've  saved 
enough  to  keep  me  going  for  a  few  months.  Come  up 
and  talk." 

They  went  up  to  No.  16.  Kilner  produced  ciga- 
rettes and  continued : 

"I'd  have  bet  any  amount  you  were  an  out-of-work 
writer,  or  a  young  man  slung  out  of  a  respectable 
house  for  reading  poetry  in  church.  You  don't  look 

192 


MR.  MARTIN 

like  the  sort  of  fool  who  gets  messed  up  by  women, 
though  almost  any  man  is  that  kind  of  fool." 

Rene  tried  to  protest  against  that,  and  to  point  out 
that  he  had  been  married  and  therefore  serious  in  his 
folly,  if  folly  it  were.  Kilner  only  grunted  at  him. 

"H'm!"  he  said.  "Looks  as  if  you'd  been  in  the 
habit  of  taking  things  seriously  simply  because  they 
happened  to  yourself.  That's  idiotic.  Most  things 
that  happen  are  dirty  little  jokes,  opportunities  fum- 
bled because  one  isn't  fit  to  handle  them,  or  situations 
forced  out  of  greed  or  conceit,  or  injured  vanity,  or 
mere  pigheadedness.  There  are  divine  things  happen : 
doing  a  good  bit  of  drawing  is  one  of  them,  finding  a 
friend  is  another,  falling  in  love  is  another.  Those 
things  happen  simply  because  you  can't  help  doing 
them,  because  you'd  die  one  of  many  deaths  if  you 
didn't.  Once  you've  done  one  of  those  things,  nothing 
else  matters.  You  have  something  in  you  that  you 
must  keep  alive.  Let  the  others  make  the  world  hide- 
ous and  vulgar  and  untidy.  It  is  not  your  affair.  If 
they  won't  or  can't  love  what  you  love,  then  they  are 
not  for  you  and  you  are  not  for  them.  Don't  you 
think?" 

Rene  could  find  nothing  to  say.  He  found  it  so  ab- 
sorbing to  watch  Kilner,  to  listen  to  his  monologue 
delivered  in  a  voice  of  wonderful  sweetness  that 
seemed  always  to  be  trembling  into  laughter.  The 
zest,  the  humor  of  the  man  thrilled  through  him,  and 
made  him  feel  that  all  his  life  was  full  of  promise, 
rich  and  ripe  with  romance. 

Kilner  began  to  tell  him  about  painting  and  painters, 

193 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

about  Rembrandt  and  Van  Eyck  and  Cranach,  happy 
Cranach  who  could  paint  women  without  being  either 
sensual  or  sentimental,  and  Diirer  and  Holbein  and 
della  Francesca,  and  how  he  himself,  the  son  of  a 
mason  in  Buckinghamshire,  had  always  painted,  at  first 
without  taste  and  without  purpose,  from  sheer  delight 
in  objects,  their  form  and  their  color,  and  how  little 
by  little  he  had  learned  to  see  the  beauty  shining 
through  them  and  to  wish  to  have  that  beauty  also 
shining  through  his  pictures  and  drawings.  And  how 
he  had  come  to  London  to  learn  his  art,  financed  by 
rich  people  near  his  home;  and  how  he  had  assumed 
that  every  man  who  touched  brush  and  paint  had  also 
desired  to  render  the  shining  beauty  that  used  all 
things  for  its  dwelling-place;  and  how  incidentally  he 
had  suffered  from  arrogance  and  blown  vanity,  though 
never  losing  sight  of  his  one  object;  and  how  he  had 
been  taught  a  certain  kind  of  drawing,  to  be  accurate 
in  imitation,  and  then  again  accurate  and  again  accu- 
rate ;  and  how  he  had  quarreled  with  those  of  his  teach- 
ers who  had  wished  him  not  to  use  the  power  of  accu- 
racy they  taught  him,  but  to  regard  it  as  in  itself  an 
end;  quarreled  with  his  fellow-students,  with  his  pa- 
trons, with  his  family,  with  exhibiting  societies,  with 
— apparently — everybody,  because  he  could  not  learn 
to  keep  his  opinions  to  himself  or  conceive  that  men 
who  painted  vilely  with  constant  sacrifice  of  beauty  to 
their  desire  to  please,  did  so  because  that  was  how  they 
saw  things  and  how  they  liked  things  and  loved  them 
so  far  as  they  could  love  at  all.  And  he  told  Rene  of 
many  love  affairs  he  had  had,  some  casual,  some  un- 

194 


MR.  MARTIN 

happy  and  desperate,  some  light-hearted  and  gay,  and 
one  ecstatic  though  it  had  lasted  only  for  five  weeks  in 
spring.  He  described  with  a  vivid  power  how  he  and 
she  lay  in  the  grass  in  Richmond  Park  and  the  soft  air 
above  them  was  alive  with  light,  quivering  up  to  the 
blue  where  the  clouds  swam  and  slowly  faded  out  of 
form  and  being  and  other  clouds  came ;  and  near  them 
was  an  almond-tree  in  blossom,  and  above  them  shone 
the  gummy  buds  of  the  beeches ;  crisp  to  the  touch  was 
the  grass,  moist  and  cool  was  the  earth.  And  he 
touched  her  white  arm  and  she  trembled.  He  trem- 
bled too.  And  she  turned  her  face  toward  him  with  a 
sweet  trouble  and  wonder  in  her  eyes  and  they  kissed. 

"That  ended  in  tears,  my  tears  and  hers.  I  was  too 
coarse  for  her,  I  think;  too  violent.  She  was  very 
delicate  and  beautiful." 

After  a  long  silence,  Rene  said : 

"I  have  had  nothing  in  my  life  but  foolishness." 

"There's  no  harm  in  that,"  said  Kilner.  "It's  bit- 
terness that  kills.  When  shall  I  see  you  again?" 

"Do  you  want  to?"  Rene  was  startled  into  asking. 

"Of  course.  I  don't  let  a  friend  slip  when  I've 
found  one." 

And  gladly  Rene  said : 

"A  friend.  I  begin  work  to-morrow  at  old  Mar- 
tin's." 

"There's  a  man,"  answered  Kilner.  "I  must  paint 
his  heavy,  happy  face.  It's  the  kind  of  face  there 
won't  be  again.  The  world's  changing.  Man  wants 
but  little  here  below?  Never  again.  We  want  all 
there  is." 

195 


IV 
LEARNING  A  TRADE 

'Tis  my  vocation,  'tis  no  sin  for  a  man  to  labor  in  his 
vocation. 


some  weeks  our  adventurer  divided  his  time 
between  working  in  Mr.  Martin's  yard  and  office, 
studying  the  map  of  London,  and  being  driven  about 
the  city  in  a  car  of  instruction  with  seven  or  eight 
other  aspirants  to  the  taxi-driving  profession.  Most 
of  them  were  depressed  and  bored,  smoked  incessantly, 
and  spoke  little,  but  every  now  and  then  Rene  would 
find  one  to  talk  to  him  and  take  pity  on  his  gentility 
and  give  him  advice  and  consolation.  The  drives 
would  begin  cheerfully  enough,  often  with  excitement 
and  humor,  but  soon  listlessness  would  creep  over  the 
party,  the  more  sober  individuals  would  produce  maps 
and  notebooks,  while  the  younger  would  conceitedly 
assume  that  their  knowledge  could  not  be  enlarged,  or 
perhaps  they  were  ashamed  to  be  caught  out  in  igno- 
rance. On  the  whole,  they  made  Rene  unhappy,  for 
most  of  them  were  drifting  so  helplessly  and  with  such 
dull  indifference.  By  contrast  the  energy,  the  power, 
and  richness  of  London  streets  were  almost  appalling. 
He  would  return  home  exhausted  and  confused,  and, 

196 


LEARNING  A  TRADE 

to  avoid  thought,  would  go  on  with  his  map,  taking 
Hyde  Park  Corner,  Oxford  Circus,  and  the  Bank  as 
the  centers  of  three  circles  into  which  he  had  divided 
the  city  of  his  future  operations.  He  found  it  easy  to 
memorize  the  thoroughfares  that  connected  them  and 
their  dependent  roads.  He  had  observed  that  certain 
districts  were  devoid  of  cabs  or  cab-ranks,  and  mark- 
ing these  districts  off  on  his  map,  he  concentrated  upon 
the  rest.  The  cabs  served  to  connect  one  moneyed 
region  with  another,  and  with  the  stations  and  places 
of  business  and  pleasure.  And  he  selected  the  mon- 
eyed district  where  he  would  begin  when  he  had  his 
cab. 

Casey  was  a  Liverpool  Irishman  who  had  begun  life 
as  a  clerk  in  a  shipping  office  and  had  then,  at  twenty- 
seven,  revolted  and  gone  out  to  South  Africa  to  work 
in  the  mines  until  one  of  his  lungs  gave  out.  Then 
he  came  home  and  had  a  nasty  time  in  London  in  an 
office  until  he  was  told  by  a  doctor  that  he  must  find 
some  outdoor  occupation.  With  the  little  money  he 
had  left,  he  had  learned  how  to  drive  and  repair  a  car, 
had  been  with  one  of  the  big  companies  for  some  time ; 
then  married  a  niece  of  old  Martin's  and  thought  he 
could  do  better  by  working  for  him  on  a  profit-sharing 
basis.  That  was  Rene's  arrangement;  he  was  given 
the  alternative  of  buying  his  car  on  the  hire-purchase 
system  and  using  the  yard  as  a  garage,  but  on  Casey's 
advice  chose  the  first  proposition.  Casey  said  it  was 
better,  because  you  needed  capital  to  stand  the  heavy 
wear  and  tear  of  a  car  in  constant  use  in  London  traf- 
fic. That  settled,  Casey  took  his  novice  out  in  the 

197 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

early  morning  to  satisfy  himself  that  the  car  would 
not  suffer  at  his  Hnds.  He  was  delighted  with  the 
way  the  machine  was  handled.  Rene,  too,  was  pleased. 
He  had  been  rather  nervous  at  the  thought  of  driving 
a  more  powerful  engine  than  that  to  which  he  had 
been  accustomed;  but  the  greater  power  was  only  an 
added  pleasure  and  no  difficulty. 

He  took  out  his  license  and  received  a  number  and  a 
number-plate,  joined  the  union,  bought  a  thick  green 
suit  that  buttoned  up  to  his  neck,  shiny  leggings,  and  a 
peaked  cap;  a  waterproof  overall,  enormous  gloves,  a 
leather  purse,  a  rug.  Then  on  a  day  early  in  the  au- 
tumn he  drove  his  car  out  of  the  mews  and  plunged 
into  the  eastward  stream  of  traffic.  He  had  not  gone 
above  a  hundred  yards  when  he  was  hailed  by  a  gen- 
tleman in  tail-coat  and  top-hat  carrying  a  red  brief- 
bag.  Drawing  up  by  the  curb,  he  flung  back  his  arm 
and  opened  the  door  as  he  had  seen  drivers  do,  and 
received  the  one  word :  Temple. 

Absurdly  hoping  that  he  would  be  seen  by  no  one 
who  knew  him,  and  feeling  that  the  eyes  of  the  occu- 
pant of  the  car  were  boring  into  the  back  of  his  neck, 
he  drove  to  the  Temple,  and  there  received  more  exact 
directions  from  the  gentleman,  who  poked  his  head  o'ut 
of  the  window,  until  they  stopped  outside  a  doorway 
with  steps  covered  with  the  leaves  of  a  plane-tree.  The 
gentleman  got  out : 

"You  forgot  to  put  down  your  flag." 

Rene  started  and  blushed.    So  he  had ! 

"The  fare's  half  a  crown." 

"Thank  you,  .  .  .  sir." 

198 


LEARNING  A  TRADE 

He  was  given  two  and  nine.  His  first  tip !  Three- 
pence. 

It  was  a  busy  day.  He  had  only  half  an  hour  to  wait 
on  the  stand  which  he  had  chosen  for  his  headquarters. 
He  drove  home  at  night  worn  out  and  sleepy. 

The  excitement  did  not  last.  Very  soon  he  hardly 
noticed  his  fares;  a  stick  or  an  umbrella  raised  in  the 
street,  a  whistle  blown  by  a  servant,  and  off  he  sped, 
shipped  his  freight,  and  discharged  it  uninterested. 
From  his  district  in  the  morning  the  gentlemen  went 
to  their  business ;  later  in  the  day  their  ladies  went  to 
the  shops ;  in  the  evening  both  went  about  their  pleas- 
ures. Occasionally  he  was  taken  out  to  the  suburbs, 
far  west  or  north,  but  for  the  most  part  it  was  routine 
work,  varied  in  the  evenings,  sometimes,  with  the  con- 
veyance of  brilliantly-attired  young  men  and  women 
from  a  restaurant  to  a  theater  in  the  West  End,  or  of 
dubious  couples  to  dubious  habitations. 

And  he  was  happy.  The  monotony  was  a  relief.  It 
never  ceased  to  be  a  source  of  pride  to  him  to  keep  the 
paint  and  brass  of  his  car  gleaming  and  his  engine 
s\veet  and  in  tune.  Always  it  was  a  delight  to  him  at 
night,  when  the  traffic  was  abated,  to  let  the  throttle 
open  and  send  the  car  spinning  and  humming  over  the 
shining  streets.  If  he  lost  interest  in  his  fares,  he 
never  weakened  in  his  joy  in  the  streets  with  their 
color  and  activity,  as  changing  as  the  sky  or  as  the 
water  in  the  river,  their  music  swelling  through  the 
day,  to  almost  every  hour  its  individual  harmony,  a 
music  growing  and  falling  with  the  seasons:  vigor 

199 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

and  hope  in  October;  in  the  winter  a  humorous  des- 
peration out  of  which  grew  miraculously  the  spring, 
and  that  again  was  lost  in  the  maddening  rout  of  June 
and  then  the  slackness  and  the  excited  pleasure-hunt- 
ing of  the  summer  months  when  the  genius  of  the  city 
flees  before  the  horde  of  aliens  and  visitors  who  come 
to  gape  and  peer  and  see  the  sights.  He  was  happy, 
and  most  of  all  he  loved  his  independence,  to  be  free  of 
organization  of  any  kind.  Company?  The  car  was 
company.  He  and  it  worked  together.  Here  was  no 
uncertainty,  no  fumbling.  The  day's  work  was  marked 
out  and  must  be  well  done.  There  was  always  satis- 
faction in  it  and  never  compromise,  never  the  sense 
of  being  driven  on  by  some  obscure  and  undirected 
energy  other  than  his  own  that  had  so  often  overcome 
him  in  Thrigsby.  And  because  his  mind  and  body 
were  engaged  in  the  discipline  of  skilled  work,  his 
intellect,  his  imagination  began  to  grow,  to  reach  out, 
to  desire  to  use  their  powers  upon  all  that  he  observed 
and  thought  and  felt.  A  little  joy  grew  in  him  slowly 
and  brought  him  at  first  to  a  dreaming,  wistful  mood 
wherein  desires  expanded  of  which  he  did  not  begin 
to  be  conscious  until  spring  airs  stirred  in  London. 

Through  the  winter  the  habit  of  labor  and  his  pride 
in  it  brought  him  slowly  nearer  to  understanding  of 
Ann  Pidduck  and  her  absorption  in  fun.  He  began  to 
share  her  pleasure  in  relaxation.  She  taught  him  to 
dance,  and  they  attended  shilling  balls  together  and  she 
communicated  to  him  her  Cockney  pleasure  in  the 
streets,  the  prowling  in  the  lighted  thoroughfares,  the 
making  of  chance  acquaintances,  the  full  gusto  of 

200 


LEARNING  A  TRADE 

broad  jests.  He  introduced  her  to  Kilner  and  tried  to 
make  her  include  him  in  their  intimacy  and  their 
jaunts ;  but  she  seemed  to  be  scared  of  the  artist,  and 
when  Rene  appeared  with  him  would  make  excuses  of 
other  engagements. 

Then  there  were  evenings  of  talk  with  Kilner,  Rene 
hardly  listening  to  him  but  rejoicing  in  the  vigor  of 
his  words.  He  was  painting  in  his  spare  time  and  on 
Saturdays  and  Sundays,  and  through  his  pictures  and 
the  painter's  enthusiasm  for  things  seen  Rene  learned 
to  use  his  eyes.  That  was  a  slow  process,  too.  Often 
he  saw  beautiful  things  and  creatures  that  so  moved 
him  that  he  lost  sight  of  them,  and  dwelt  only  in  the 
emotion  they  had  roused,  falsifying  his  vision.  He 
would  constantly  be  overcome  in  that  way  when  he 
tried  to  describe  anything  he  had  seen  to  his  friend, 
who  would  then  turn  upon  him  and  call  him  a  bloody 
liar,  and  a  sentimentalist,  and  a  filthy  spitter  upon  the 
world's  beauty,  a  crapulous  cheat,  trying  to  steal  a 
winged  joy  and  turn  it  into  a  selfish  pleasure;  and 
much  more  that  was  beyond  Rene  except  that  he 
would  feel  ashamed  but  also  invigorated  by  being  so 
fiercely  flung  back  into  humility.  Kilner  took  him  to 
the  National  Gallery  and  very  carefully  explained  the 
difference  between  a  real  picture  and  a  fraud.  There 
were,  according  to  him,  very  few  real  pictures.  He 
talked  Rene  into  a  very  pretty  bewilderment  from 
which  his  hours  with  Ann  were  a  welcome  relief. 
There  everything  was  what  it  seemed,  everybody  was 
taken  (more  or  less)  at  his  or  her  own  valuation ;  there 
was  fun  to  be  extracted  from  everything  and  every- 

201 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

body,  if  only  you  approached  them  good-humoredly 
enough.  And  if  you  failed  and  did  not  find  the  ex- 
pected fun — Oh,  well,  try  elsewhere.  There  are  as 
good  fish  in  the  sea  as  ever  came  out  of  it. 

And  then  one  morning  Spring  came  to  London. 
The  black  trees  were  powdered  with  green;  the  air 
was  magical;  the  car  was  filled  with  a  blithe  new 
energy;  the  light  gave  the  street  and  the  things  and 
people  in  them  form  and  definiteness.  Rene  was  up 
and  out  very  early  that  morning  to  take  a  family  to 
one  of  the  stations.  Three  children  were  going  away 
to  the  country.  They  beamed  at  him  as  though  he 
were  already  a  part  of  their  coming  delights.  He 
laughed  at  them,  and  they  said  he  was  a  nice  funny 
driver,  and  was  he  coming  to  the  country,  too  ?  Uncle 
George  had  got  a  new  calf  which  they  would  like  him 
to  see.  When  he  had  unloaded  the  happy  party  at  the 
station — it  was  that  at  which  he  had  arrived  the  year 
before — he  caught  sight  of  the  hill  at  Highgate,  like  a 
green  mountain  towering  above  the  long  gray  streets. 
He  turned  northward  and  sped  out  over  the  hills  and 
far  away.  Here  the  trees  were  less  advanced  than  in 
London,  but  their  green  was  peeping,  and  in  a  field 
were  ewes  and  lambs.  He  stopped  his  engine  and 
stood  by  the  fence  and  gazed  at  them.  Two  of  the 
lambs  were  playing,  running  races  backward  and  for- 
ward. In  the  sky  there  were  little  clouds,  and  they 
too  seemed  to  be  playing.  He  remembered  words  of 
Kilner's: 

"Real  seeing  is  through,  not  with,  your  eyes.  Then 
you  recognize  that  all  things  visible  are  within  you  as 

202 


LEARNING  A  TRADE 

well  as  without.  Then  the  spirit  in  you  sees  the  spirit 
shining  in  all  things,  and  it  is  only  the  spirit  that  can 
really  see." 

And  away  up  north  was  a  black  city,  dark  and  hard 
and  remorseless,  from  which  he  had  escaped.  The 
memory  of  it  clung  to  him  now  and  filled  him  with  a 
stabbing  terror  that,  though  it  could  not  rob  him  of 
his  joy,  could  yet  bring  him  to  a  new  discontent,  a 
hungry  and  almost  angry  desire. 

Back  then  he  went  to  the  city,  and  all  day  long 
busily  plied  his  trade.  To-day  he  closely  observed  all 
things.  The  wonder  of  the  early  morning  was  gone. 
He  hated  those  who  hired  him,  the  insolent  women  and 
busy,  indifferent  men,  for  it  seemed  to  him  that  they 
had  destroyed  it.  Unconsciously  he  contrasted  these 
people,  who  went  so  insensibly  about  their  habitual 
stale  employments,  with  the  happy  children  going  to 
the  country. 

He  was  engaged  to  seek  amusement  with  Ann  that 
night.  She  was  for  the  Pictures,  but  he  persuaded  her 
to  go  on  the  top  of  a  bus  to  Kew. 

"But  they've  got  the  Miserables  at  the  Pictures," 
she  said,  "and  they  say  it's  It." 

"Look  at  the  sky,  my  dear,"  he  protested. 

She  looked  at  it. 

"Yes.    It's  all  right." 

Usually  now  when  he  met  her  in  the  evening  he 
kissed  her,  because  she  expected  it.  She  had  kissed 
him  first  when  he  had  given  her  a  present  at  Christ- 
mas, and  thereafter  it  became  their  practice,  com- 
radely. To-night  he  did  not  kiss  her.  He  was  stirred 

203 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

at  the  sight  of  her;  her  friendliness,  the  bright  greeting 
of  her  eyes  thrust  him  back  into  himself  and  inwardly 
alarmed  him.  And  she  looked  up  at  him  and  laughed 
mischievously,  and  swung  her  body  from  the  hips  up, 
and  then  moved  slowly  away  from  him,  pouting  her 
lips. 

"Would  you  like  anywhere  better  than  Kew?"  he 
asked. 

"Wimbledon,  where  we  saw  the  picture-actors. 
D'you  remember?"  They  boarded  a  bus  and  were 
swiftly  borne  out  over  the  river,  up  through  the  holi- 
day town  that  had  reminded  him  of  Buxton,  and  out 
to  the  wide  common.  There  they  wandered.  A  thin 
moon  came  up.  They  passed  whispering  lovers,  and 
men  and  women  for  whom  that  word  was  too  great. 

Here  again  was  spring,  the  first  spring  evening. 

Ann  chattered,  but  Rene  spoke  never  a  word.  Once 
she  said: 

"Dull  to-night,  aren't  you?    Are  you  tired?" 

Her  questions  met  with  so  hard  a  silence  that  she 
too  ceased  to  talk. 

She  thought  he  must  be  offended  with  her,  and  as 
they  returned  she  slipped  her  hand  on  his  knee.  He 
gripped  her  forearm,  held  it  for  a  moment,  then  put 
her  away  from  him. 

After  a  long  while  she  said : 

"I  didn't  know  I'd  made  you  angry." 

"Angry?    My  dear  child!" 

"What  is  it,  then?" 

"This  damned  world.  This  morning  I  took  three 
happy  children  to  the  country,  and  all  day  long  I've 

204 


LEARNING  A  TRADE 

been  at  the  beck  and  call  of  men  and  women  who  have 
lost  the  power  and  the  will  to  be  happy." 

"I  don't  know  how  you  know.  And  you're  not  very 
good  at  it  yourself  to-night,  are  you?" 

"How  do  I  know?    Ask  Kilner." 

"That  beast,  Kilner." 

"He's  my  friend." 

"He's  no  friend  of  mine." 

Then  again  he  was  silent.  The  thought  of  Kilner 
had  made  him  just  a  little  angry  with  her.  With  Kil- 
ner the  day  that  had  begun  so  beautifully  might  have 
come  to  a  glorious  and  brave  end. 

Presently  she  rubbed  her  cheek  against  his  shoulder 
and  said : 

"Don't  be  cross.  You'll  soon  be  dead,  and  it's  no 
good  being  cross.  I  do  like  being  with  you,  really, 
even  when  we  can't  have  fun,  and  you  go  wasting 
your  time  thinking." 

He  turned,  and  their  eyes  met,  and  he  astonished  her 
by  saying : 

"Ann,  you  don't  know  how  beautiful  you  are." 

She  gave  a  little  cry  on  that,  put  out  her  hand,  and 
this  time  he  held  it  strongly  clasped.  They  could  be 
happy  in  their  silence  then. 

When  they  reached  the  mews  she  said  she  had  sup- 
per in  her  room  and  he  could  come  up  if  he  liked.  They 
ate  and  drank  and  were  very  merry,  and  it  was  late 
when  he  rose  to  go.  He  opened  the  door.  She  was  at 
his  side. 

"Good  night,  Ann." 

"You  needn't  go,"  she  whispered. 
205 


V 

TOGETHER 

Je  vais  ou  le  vent  me  mene 
Sans  me  plaindre  ou  m'effrayer. 
Je  vais  ou  va  toute  chose, 
Ou   va    la    feuille    de    rose 
Et  la   feuille  de  laurier ! 

A  DAY  or  two  later  he  moved  his  few  belongings 
•**•  from  Jimmy's  rooms  to  Ann's.  It  was  her 
wish.  There  was  no  point  in  concealment.  The  mews 
knew;  the  mews  had  expected  it;  the  mews  did  not 
mind.  Mr.  Martin  was  delighted : 

"It's  what  every  young  woman  wants,  to  throw  in 
her  lot  with  some  nice  young  feller.  If  they  can't  be 
married,  they  can't,  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it.  Take 
mares  now —  Well,  you  know  what  I  mean."  He 
caught  the  boy  with  his  head  in  at  the  door  listening, 
picked  up  a  ledger,  and  threw  it  at  him.  A  bad  shot, 
it  broke  a  pane  in  the  glass  wall. 

Rene  had  told  him  all  the  circumstances,  because  he 
knew  that  the  mews  was  full  of  gossip,  and  he  was 
attached  enough  to  the  old  fellow  to  wish  him  to  be  in 
possession  of  the  facts. 

"What  I  mean  to  say,"  continued  Mr.  Martin,  when 
206 


TOGETHER 

the  boy  had  fled,  "is  this :  If  women  must  come  ker- 
boosting  into  a  man's  life,  it's  better  for  them  to  come 
while  he's  young  and  fool  enough  to  enjoy  it.  There's 
a  time  for  everything,  as  the  Bible  says,  but  don't  let 
her  put  on  you.  The  best  of  women  will  put  on  a  man 
if  he  lets  her,  and  that's  bad  for  both." 

That  was  the  advice  with  which  Rene  Fourmy's 
second  venture  in  cohabitation  was  blessed.  As  usually 
happens  with  advice,  he  was  too  deeply  engrossed  in 
present  interests  to  apply  what  wisdom  it  contained  to 
his  own  case.  He  drifted  down  the  stream  of  bliss 
they  had  tapped,  and,  as  generously  as  she,  brought 
into  their  common  stock  as  much  kindness,  consider- 
ation, and  warmth,  excitement  and  curiosity  as  they 
needed  to  take  them  from  moment  to  moment.  Only 
he  brought  no  laughter,  of  which  she  supplied  abun- 
dance. Both  were  out  early  and  all  day  long,  and 
both  returned  in  the  evening  tired  but  eager  for  the 
new  wonder  of  each  other's  company.  Indeed  it  was 
wonderful,  the  easy  sympathy  they  had  for  each  other. 
They  could  be  frank.  She  had  no  preconception  of 
what  love  should  be,  and  took  all  its  delights  simply  as 
they  came,  and  her  simplicity  fed  and  encouraged  his. 
It  was  a  novelty  for  him  to  live  from  day  to  day  satis- 
fied; a  kind  of  Paradise,  if  Paradise  is  a  place  where 
the  appetites  are  a  little  overfed,  so  that  body  and 
mind  are  brought  to  indolence. 

Kilner  had  disappeared  for  a  time,  having  made 
enough  to  be  able  to  retire  to  his  painting,  and  Rene 
had  no  other  society  than  the  chauffeurs  in  the  shelters 
during  the  day  and  the  familiars  of  Mitcham  Mews  in 

207 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

the  evening.  He  became  sluggishly  content  to  drift. 
He  was  making  good  money,  increased  by  Ann's  earn- 
ings. If  he  ever  thought  of  the  old  life  in  the  North 
at  all,  it  was  with  lazy  contempt  and  indifference.  His 
first  attitude  toward  London  was  reversed.  He  had 
begun  with  all  the  northerner's  contempt  for  the  easy 
ways  of  the  metropolis.  He  never  read  anything  but 
the  newspaper,  and  every  evening  would  read  aloud 
the  "fooltong"  in  the  Star.  Ann  took  it  for  the  bet- 
ting. She  put  aside  two  shillings  a  week  for  "the 
horses,"  and  he  joined  her  in  that  pursuit.  He  did 
not  so  much  enjoy  her  pleasures  as  her  zest  for  them, 
and  it  became  his  object  to  keep  that  alive.  Without 
that  he  was  at  moments  aware  of  a  sickening  sensa- 
tion that  was  truly  horrible,  making  him  gird  at  his 
surroundings,  at  certain  tricks  that  Ann  had,  at  hab- 
its, gestures,  tones  in  her  voice  that  were  like  his  sister- 
in-law  Elsie's.  He  saw  the  resemblance  first  on  re- 
ceiving a  letter  from  his  brother  George : 

"DEAR  R, — A  pal  of  mine  who  has  been  on  the  spree  saw 
you  in  London  the  other  day,  says  you  drove  him  from  the 
Troc  to  Bernard  Street.  I  thought  you'd  have  been  off  that 
long  ago,  but  there's  no  accounting  for  tastes.  I  meant  to 
write  some  time  since  to  say  the  old  man  has  hopped  it 
again,  and  the  mother  has  taken  up  her  quarters  with  us. 
It  seems  some  money  came  in — I  can't  make  out  where  from 
— and  he  grabbed  it  and  offed.  It  seems  to  have  finished 
her;  she's  shut  up  tight,  sits  and  knits,  toddles  off  to  church 
whenever  there's  a  service,  never  mentions  him  or  you. 
Elsie  can't  get  anything  out  of  her,  though  they  talk  enough 
together.  It  makes  the  house  seem  full  of  women.  I've 
never  set  eyes  on  you  know  who  since  you  cleared.  I'm 

208 


TOGETHER 

doing  well  enough,  and  hope  to  get  something  of  my  own 
in  a  few  years,  though  small  business  don't  stand  much 
chance  in  these  days  against  the  big  combines.  You'd  be 
amazed  at  the  huge  joint  warehouses  they're  putting  up 
now.  Thrigby's  changing,  and  things  are  queer  all  round. 
People  shift  a  bit  now,  what  with  the  Colonies  and  all  that. 
They  don't  stay  in  offices  like  they  used  to  do,  only  it  doesn't 
seem  to  make  things  any  better  for  those  who  stay.  Elsie 
sends  her  love ;  she  always  was  a  bit  soft  on  you  and  didn't 
mind  a  bit  when  you  cleared.  I  only  meant  to  tell  you 
about  the  mother,  thinking  you  ought  to  know.  If  ever  I 
get  to  London  I'll  look  you  up. — Thine,  G. — Oh !  Kurt  Brock 
has  gone  in  for  the  aviation  and  is  making  quite  a  name  for 
himself  up  here." 

The  letter  took  Rene  back  pleasantly  in  memory, 
when  he  was  suddenly  startled  to  find  himself  meeting 
George  on  his  own  ground,  with  complacent  accept- 
ance of  "having  a  good  time,"  as  the  one  desirable  ob- 
ject which  could  redeem  the  ever-present  evil.  And 
then  he  was  compelled,  from  that  footing,  to  see  his 
own  revolt  as  an  unaccountable  aberration,  an  eccen- 
tricity, an  escapade  unfortunately  disastrous  in  its 
consequences.  He  did  not  like  that,  nor  did  he  relish 
being  coupled  in  George's  mind  with  his  father,  who 
was  first  indolent,  then  a  vagabond,  then  irresponsible. 
His  confidence  was  shaken,  and  he  was  made  conscious 
of  discrepancy  and  narrowly  aware  of  having  missed 
something  of  that  which  he  set  out  to  seek.  Experi- 
ence had  taught  him  that  it  was  no  use  taking  any 
unhappiness  to  Ann.  She  would  merely  assume  that 
he  was  unwell  and  probably  dose  him  with  physic  from 
the  herbalist's  round  the  corner.  Again,  he  saw  that 

209 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

George,  like  Ann,  had  a  gusto  in  his  way  of  living 
which  he  himself  lacked,  and  now  only  enjoyed  vi- 
cariously. That  could  no  longer  fret  his  nerves  as  in 
the  old  days  it  had  done ;  he  was  fortified  by  the  mem- 
ory of  his  act  of  revolt  and  the  months  of  entire 
independence  he  had  enjoyed  since  his  coming  to  Lon- 
don. He  looked  up  at  Ann  from  his  letter. 

"Bad  news?"  she  said. 

"I  don't  know  whether  it's  good  or  bad.  My  father 
has  cleared  out  again." 

"It's  made  you  sorry.  You  always  look  like  that 
when  you  think  of  your  home.  Sometimes  I  fancy 
you  really  wish  you  had  never  come  away." 

"That's  not  true.  I'm  perfectly  content.  I'm  learn- 
ing not  to  blame  anybody.  That  isn't  easy." 

"If  you're  not  sorry,  I  don't  see  why  you  want  to 
think  about  it." 

"You  can't  forget  people  so  completely  as  all  that." 

"Your  dad  seems  to  be  able  to." 

"I'm  not  my  father." 

"No.  But  sometimes  I  wish  you'd  take  a  leaf  out 
of  his  book.  From  what  you  tell  me  he  does  seem 
able  to  enjoy  himself." 

"Don't  I?" 

"Oh,  you're  better  than  you  used  to  be,  but  you  do 
frighten  me  sometimes." 

"When?" 

"Oh,  when  you  look  at  me  and  don't  see  me,  and 
when  I  go  on  talking  and  you  don't  hear  a  word  I'm 
saying.  Sometimes  I  think  it's  only  because  you  had 
that  queer  time  when  you  first  came  to  London,  and 

210 


TOGETHER 

then  I  think  you  can't  be  any  different.  The  world 
does  seem  upside  down,  and  it  seems  to  me  it  might 
be  better  if  we  went  right  away  and  made  a  new 
start  somewheres." 

It  comforted  Rene  to  find  that  she,  too,  had  her 
qualms,  and  that  there  was  some  stir  behind  her  con- 
stant and  equable  good  humor.  He  said : 

"Oh,  no.  I  think  we  shall  be  all  right.  Only  we 
mustn't  make  the  mistake  of  thinking  that  love  makes 
life  easier." 

"Not  much  fear  of  that,"  she  replied,  with  an  odd 
little  wry  smile.  "Mr.  Martin  said  to  me,  he  said, 
'This  here  education  makes  a  man  queer  to  live  with. 
If  it  isn't  idees,'  he  said,  'it's  niceness;  and  if  it  isn't 
niceness  it's  bloody  obstinacy/  he  said.  .  .  .  And  I  do 
try,  Renny,  I  do  reelly,  though  of  course  if  I  hadn't 
the  work  during  the  day  I  should  feel  it  more." 

"What  would  you  feel?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  Oh,  you  know,  when  you 
look  at  things  a  long  time,  and  when  you  like  to  sit 
and  smoke  and  look  inside  yourself." 

"I  didn't  know  I  did  that.  I  don't  see  much  if  I 
do." 

"Well,  you  do.  And  I  asked  Mr.  Martin  about  it 
and  he  said  it  was  education,  and  he  said  his  brother- 
in-law  was  like  that  before  he  went  off  his  head  with 
religion.  And  often  when  I  look  at  you  and  you  are 
like  that  I  want  to  put  my  arms  round  you  and  hold 
you  until  you  stop  doing  it,  and  begin  to  think  of  me 
a  little." 

"But  I  do  think  of  you  all  the  time." 

211 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

Then  she  put  her  arms  round  him  and  held  him 
close  until  he  forgot  all  but  her  in  the  dark  pleasure 
that  is  called  love. 

And  again  he  drifted  and  supposed  himself  content, 
until  one  day  when  a  young  man  hailed  him  and  told 
him  to  drive  to  Islington  where  there  was  an  exhibi- 
tion of  modern  engineering.  Halfway  there,  the 
young  man  stopped  the  car,  leaped  out  excitedly, 
gripped  Rene  by  the  arm,  and  cried : 

"Good  Lord,  if  it  isn't  old  Rene !" 

It  was  Kurt  Brock. 

"I  say !"  he  said.    "What  a  find !" 

"The  taxi's  mounting  up,"  said  Rene. 

"I  say,  you  take  me  out  to  Hendon  and  we'll  have 
a  yarn.  They  told  me  you  were  still  at  it,  and  I  was 
meaning  to  come  and  see  you,  but  I'm  up  to  my  eyes 
in  work.  Let  me  drive." 

He  took  the  wheel  and  sent  the  car  whizzing  through 
the  traffic  at  a  speed  that  made  Rene  cry  out  in  pro- 
test that  he'd  have  him  run  in  and  his  license  for- 
feited. Kurt  slowed  down  a  little. 

"Cars  crawl  so,"  he  said,  "once  you've  tried  a 
flier." 

"I've  seen  your  name  in  the  papers." 

"Yes.  I  won  my  first  race,  Glasgow  to  Edinburgh 
round  the  coast  of  Scotland.  Bit  stiff,  some  of 
it,  with  mist  and  rain.  I  say,  I  am  glad  to  see  you. 
You're  looking  fit.  Better  life  than  mugging  away 
with  books,  what?  Though  I  don't  know  that  I'd 
care  about  being  out  in  the  streets  in  all  weathers, 
what?" 

212 


TOGETHER 

"Oh,  you  get  used  to  that.  I  hate  it  when  the  engine 
goes  wrong  and  I  have  to  stay  at  home." 

They  reached  Hendon  and  Kurt  took  his  old  friend 
to  see  his  new  monoplane. 

"Like  to  go  up  in  her  ?  She's  a  snorter.  Takes  the 
air  like  a  bird;  you  can  feel  her  planes  stretching  to 
the  air,  and  the  engine's  like  a  cat." 

Before  he  could  think  twice  about  it,  Rene  found 
himself  sitting  up  behind  Kurt  with  the  machine  rush- 
ing over  the  ground  and  the  engine  roaring.  He  could 
not  tell  at  what  point  they  left  the  earth,  but  trees, 
sheds,  houses  seemed  to  fall  away  as  though  the  earth 
were  tilted  up,  and  then  the  air  rushed  in  his  ears, 
caught  at  his  throat,  pressed  hard  against  his  body. 
He  looked  down.  They  were  ascending  in  circles. 
Roads  looked  like  ribbons,  trees  like  haycocks,  trams 
like  toys,  men  and  women  were  little  dots  mysteri- 
ously and  absurdly  moving.  They  hovered  for  a  mo- 
ment as  they  turned  out  of  the  final  circle  and  made 
straight  for  a  low  gray  cloud.  Soon  they  passed 
through  it,  and  up  again.  Presently  they  turned, 
dipped,  and  Kurt  shut  off  the  engine  and  they  came 
gliding  down;  the  earth  tilted  up  alarmingly  to  meet 
them;  houses,  trees,  sheds  slid  back  into  their  places. 
Rene  was  startled  to  find  the  earth  almost  immedi- 
ately flattened  out  again  without  the  threatened  im- 
pact, and  back  they  darted  to  the  hangar. 

"Glorious?"  asked  Kurt. 

"I — I  don't  know  yet,"  replied  Rene. 

"How  like  you!" 

"How  do  you  mean — like  me?" 
213 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"I  mean,  to  admit  that  you  don't  know.  Half 
the  people  I  take  up  pretend  they  like  it,  though 
they  hate  it  really.  A  few,  like  you,  don't  know, 
but  they  don't  say  so.  I  wish  I'd  been  the  first  man  to 
do  it." 

Rene  had  to  walk  to  get  warm  again,  and  he  left 
Kurt  in  his  hangar  for  a  moment  to  instruct  one  of 
his  mechanics.  He  came  quickly,  caught  Rene  by  the 
arm,  and  laughed,  telling  him  how  comic  it  was  to 
see  him  in  his  chauffeur's  clothes,  disguised,  the  truant 
brother-in-law  hiding  behind  a  uniform.  Rene  said: 

"I've  got  used  to  it  now." 

"Do  you  ever  open  a  book?" 

"Sometimes.    I  had  a  few  sent  to  me." 

"Economic  books?"  asked  Kurt. 

"No.  But  I  go  on  thinking  about  all  that.  Habit,  I 
suppose,  or  perhaps  trying  to  discover  what  it  really 
is  all  about,  and  I  don't  know.  They  used  to  call  it  a 
science,  but  it  can't  be  scientific " 

"That's  what  I  say.  You  do  know  where  you  are 
with  an  engine.  You  can  eat  up  distance.  But  I 
thought  clever  people  would  never  understand  that. 
You  used  not  to.  Perhaps  you're  not  clever  any  more. 
That's  what  I  said  to  Linda.  Oh,  I'm  sorry." 

"You  needn't  be."  Rene  gulped  that  out,  for  indeed 
he  was  embarrassed.  The  days  of  his  torment  were 
brought  back  suddenly,  came  savagely  breaking 
through  his  simple  pleasure  in  the  rediscovery  of  this 
enlarged  Kurt,  grown  from  boy  to  man  without  loss 
of  youth  and  frankness.  He  extricated  himself  from 
his  confusion  by  asking : 

214 


TOGETHER 

"How  is  she?"  And  at  once  he  was  shocked  to 
find  out  how  little  he  really  cared  to  know. 

"Linda?  Well,  she's  a  much  better  sort  than  she 
used  to  be.  I  don't  know  much  about  women,  though 
I  like  them  well  enough.  Linda?  Oh,  she  seems 
happy.  She  has  a  house  and  a  piano  and  a  lot  of  peo- 
ple, goes  abroad,  little  parties  of  four  or  five,  mixed ; 
musicians  and  professors,  cream  of  Thrigsby,  you 
know.  She  wrote  a  play  for  the  Thrigsby  Repertory 
Theater,  all  about  you  and  marriage  and  sex.  Rather 
disgusting,  I  thought  it,  but  all  Thrigsby  flocked  to  see 
it.  All  the  same,  yes,  she  is  nicer.  Not  so  inquisitive ; 
doesn't  romance  so  wildly.  The  only  objection  I  have 
to  her  now  is  that  she  will  get  me  into  a  corner  when 
I'm  at  home  and  talk  about  you.  I  think  she  ought  to 
ignore  your  existence,  as  it  is  no  longer  her  affair. 
She  seems  unable  to  do  that,  and  she  fancies  I  know 
something  about  you  that  she  doesn't,  though  I've  told 
her  over  and  over  again  that  I  don't  pretend  to  un- 
derstand you  or  anybody  else.  I  did  tell  her  that  you 
made  me  feel  that  what  I  wanted  to  do  wasn't  neces- 
sarily a  thing  to  be  ashamed  of." 

"I  did  that?" 

"Well,  it  was  only  after  you  came  that  I  was  able 
to  tell  the  mater  that  I  didn't  want  to  do  as  she  wished 
and  couldn't.  .  .  .  Where  are  you  living?" 

Rene  described  Ann's  two  rooms. 

"Do  you  like  it  ?  I  mean,  aren't  they  rather  grubby 
and  piggy?" 

Rene  thought  it  over  with  a  clear  picture  in  his  mind 
of  Ann's  room  and  Jimmy's  and  Kilner's,  and  the 

215 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

women  standing  at  the  doors  and  leaning  out  of  the 
windows,  and  the  children  playing  in  the  muck.  For 
him  it  was  all  colored  emotionally.  Moments  of  dis- 
taste he  could  remember,  but  nothing  like  the  offended 
fastidiousness  expressed  in  Kurt's  tone. 

"Well,  yes.  Untidy  and  careless.  One  day's  work 
slops  over  into  the  next  day.  But,  you  know,  my  home 
was  not  so  very  unlike  that.  I  used  to  hate  it  at  home 
when  I  got  back  at  night  to  find  my  bed  unmade.  That 
used  to  happen." 

"Can  I  come  and  see  you?  I'm  here  for  a  fort- 
night. My  business  is  up  north.  Got  a  factory  now. 
You  must  come  and  see  it  if  ever  you  are " 

"I  don't  think  I'm  likely  to  go  north  again.  I  feel 
that's  finished.  I  don't  know  why.  It  isn't  that  I 
have  any  hatred  for  it,  or  any  bitterness  about  what 
happened.  Only  I  feel  on  firmer  ground  here,  as 
though  I  had  taken  root." 

"Ill  come  along  then.     Any  night?" 

"Almost  any  night." 

"I'll  take  my  chance." 

They  shook  hands,  Kurt  with  a  grip  that  squeezed 
Rene's  knuckles  together  until  the  pain  was  horrible. 

"  'Member  our  smash  ?"  asked  Kurt. 

Rene  grinned  at  the  recollection.  He  was  very 
pleased  and  comfortable.  To  have  established  a  con- 
nection with  the  past  through  Kurt  was  to  have  it 
made  without  shock  of  shame  or  injury  to  vanity. 
Through  Kurt's  frank  mind  it  was  cleaned  and  shaped 
for  him,  presented  to  him  so  that  he  must  make  the 
necessary  effort  to  strike  out  of  himself  the  light 

216 


TOGETHER 

which  should  reveal  it,  the  light  of  humor.  It  was  a 
very  faint  gleam  that  came  out  of  him,  but  it  was 
enough  to  serve  and  to  imprint  the  picture  on  his  mind, 
give  him  possession  of  it,  and  deliver  him  from  the 
anguish  which  attended  all  his  dark  contemplations. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  "and  I  remember  how  I  lec- 
tured you.  And  now  the  positions  are  reversed." 

"I  don't  see  that." 

An  elegant  young  man  in  a  gray  suit  came  up,  with 
a  beautiful  woman  of  a  loveliness  and  charm  that  took 
Rene's  breath  away. 

"How  do,  Kurt?"  said  the  young  man,  stepping  in 
front  of  him.  "Lady  Clewer  wishes  to  be ' 

Kurt  shook  hands  with  the  beautiful  lady  and  with 
her  and  her  companion  walked  away  toward  the  knot 
of  brilliant  persons  gathered  round  a  biplane  that  had 
just  come  to  earth. 

Flushed  and  tingling  at  the  hurt,  Rene  rushed  away, 
savagely  wound  up  his  engine,  and  glided  back  into  the 
city,  to  the  narrow  place  where  he  had  till  now  lived 
in  comfort  and  the  pleasures  of  simplicity.  Small 
and  confined  he  saw  it  now,  mean  and  untidy.  But  it 
had  been  and  was  still  his  refuge.  He  had  been  happy, 
and  the  world  had  ignored  his  happiness  and  snatched 
it  away  from  him.  He  was  actively  angry  and  jealous. 

He  frightened  Ann  by  the  hungry  affection  with 
which  he  greeted  her  when  she  came  home,  after  work- 
ing overtime  to  keep  pace  with  a  rush  of  work  at  her 
factory.  She  liked  it  too.  It  was  exciting.  Yet  she 
could  not  conceal  her  fear.  She  was  more  than  his 
match  in  exuberance,  but  here  was  a  demand  upon 

217 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

her  that  she  could  not  recognize  and  very  soon  she 
was  in  tears;  not  her  happy  tears  that  had  so  often 
reconciled  him  and  made  him  gleeful  and  proud.  He 
was  humbled  and  acutely  conscious  of  separation  from 
her,  though  they  clung  together.  For  a  few  moments 
the  whole  weight  of  their  relationship  was  thrown 
upon  their  loyalty,  and  it  did  not  yield.  She  slept 
at  last,  her  hand  in  his,  but  he  lay  awake  staring  back 
into  the  past,  fascinated  as  the  light  growing  in  him 
showed  it  up  in  continually  sharpening  relief — his 
parting  from  his  father ;  him  he  could  see  very  clearly ; 
but  his  mother  was  in  shadow,  sitting,  head  down, 
hands  busy,  never  stirring,  in  acceptance.  And  Linda  ? 
He  could  see  her  at  that  absurd  tea-party  when  his 
father  had  shown  her  his  picture.  She  walked  into 
his  life  then.  They  sat  by  the  tulips  and  she  was  gone. 
He  could  remember  his  own  desire  and  after,  only  its 
horrible,  inexplicable  disappearance. 


VI 
KILNER 

Could  I  find  a  place  to  be  alone  with  Heaven 
I  would  speak  my  heart  out. 


next  night  Ann  went  out  alone.  She  in- 
sisted  that  it  must  be  alone,  though  she  gave 
him  her  most  happy  smile  to  reassure  him. 

He  sat  reading  a  copy  of  Extracts  from  Browning 
which  he  had  bought  for  twopence  from  old  Lunt. 
The  book  was  against  his  temper,  but  he  found  a  cer- 
tain pleasure  in  making  himself  read  from  page  to 
page.  At  nine  o'clock  Kilner  came  in.  He  was  gaunt 
and  haggard,  and  his  collar  was  dirty.  He  nodded, 
produced  a  pipe,  and  sank,  as  he  lit  it,  into  the  wicker 
chair  opposite  Rene's. 

"You're  comfortable  in  here,"  he  said.  "Snug.  I 
suppose  once  you're  settled  in  here  of  a  night  you 
don't  give  a  blast  what  goes  on  in  the  world  outside. 
One  doesn't  when  one  has  got  what  one  wants." 

Rene  laid  his  book  down. 

"Have  you  got  what  you  want?" 

"I  ?  No.  I  never  -  I  was  going  to  say  I  never 
have.  I  don't  suppose  I  ever  shall.  That  makes  me 
hate  all  the  people  who  settle  down  in  comfort  and 

219 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

pretend  there  is  nothing  more  to  want.  And  as  that  is 
nearly  everybody,  you  can  imagine  the  hating  part  of 
me  is  kept  pretty  busy.  That  again  is  a  nuisance,  be- 
cause it  gets  between  me  and  what  I  want,  and  makes 
me  waste  energy  in  analyzing  myself,  my  enemies, 
patrons  (when  I  have  any),  friends.  My  relations 
gave  me  up  as  a  bad  job  long  ago.  They  made  all  sorts 
of  sacrifices  because  they  were  led  to  believe  that  my 
talent  would  in  the  end  make  me  more  comfortable 
than  they  had  ever  been.  When  they  found  that  I  pre- 
ferred discomfort  and  penury  and  starvation  to  what 
seemed  to  them  the  simple  expedient  of  painting  what 
I  was  expected  to  paint  (they  can't  understand  any- 
body wanting  to  paint  anything  else),  then  they  shrank 
away  from  me.  They  could  make  no  more  sacrifices. 
People  don't  sacrifice  for  something  they  don't  see,  and 
their  eyes  close  just  when  mine  begin  to  open.  We 
both  console  ourselves  with  hatred.  I  hate  what  they 
worship :  the  capacity  for  comfort.  They  hate  my  in- 
capacity. It  is  very  stupid.  I  would  give  almost 
anything  to  be  able  to  live  without  hatred.  It  seems 
barely  possible,  though  you  come  as  near  to  it  as  any 
man  I  ever  knew.  The  pity  of  it  is  that  you  arrive  at 
it  by  doing  and  wanting  nothing." 

"That's  hardly  fair,"  replied  Rene.  "I'm  out  and 
about  all  day.  Every  day  I  clean  and  oil  the  car. 
Often  I  spend  hours  on  it." 

"You  do  nothing  that  could  not  be  done  by  a  less 
intelligent  man  than  yourself.  You  may  do  it  more 
conscientiously,  but  at  its  best  it  is  not  good  enough 
for  your  best." 

220 


KILNER 

"But  surely  that  applies  to  every  trade  and  pro- 
fession ?" 

"Does  it?  I'm  certainly  not  going  to  generalize. 
What's  true  of  you  is  probably  true  of  thousands  of 
men.  I'm  not  interested  in  them  as  I  am  in  you." 

"It  is  even  more  true  of  the  work  I  did  before," 
said  Rene.  "I  do  feel  now  that  I  am  doing  something. 
There  is  money  earned  at  the  end  of  every  day,  really 
earned  by  being  useful.  But  I  don't  know  that  I  think 
about  it  much.  It  has  become  a  habit,  like  everything 
else." 

"All  right,  say  it  has  become  a  habit.  Say  that  a 
certain  amount  of  your  energy  is  drawn  off  in  habit, 
what  of  the  rest?  That's  what  I'm  driving  at.  What 
of  the  rest?" 

"I  read,  amuse  myself,  and  Ann " 

"And  you  are  going  on  forever,  working  out  of 
habit,  reading  and  amusing  yourself,  and  a  woman 
who- " 

"I'll  trouble  you  not  to  say  anything  against  Ann." 

"I'm  not  saying  anything  against  her.  She  has  a 
perfect  right  to  be  herself,  but  if  being  herself  inter- 
feres with  me,  I  have  a  perfect  right  to  fight  for  what 
I  want." 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"Your   friendship." 

"You  have  it,"  replied  Rene,  in  the  tone  of  one 
squashing  an  argument. 

"Yes,"  said  Kilner,  "comfortably.  You  try  to  make 
room  for  me  in  your  little  circle  of  comfort,  and,  worse 
still,  to  use  me  as  a  comfort.  I  can't  stand  that.  She 

221 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

knows  it.    That's  why  she  keeps  you  away  from  me." 

Rene  protested: 

"She  doesn't." 

"She  does.  You  watch  her  eyes  when  she  comes  in 
and  finds  me  here." 

Rene  looked  up  at  him  uneasily.  Kilner  pounced 
on  that: 

"You  are  uneasy  already.  I  don't  want  to  make 
trouble  between  you  two.  You  can  make  quite  enough 
for  yourselves,  but  I  mean  to  dig  out  of  you  what  I 
need.  I  mean  to  try  anyhow  until  I  am  satisfied  that 
what  I  need  is  not  there." 

There  was  a  challenge  in  this,  and  Rene  had  the 
surprise  of  finding  himself  meeting  it.  Indeed  it 
was  bracing  to  feel  the  painter's  vigorous  mind  search- 
ing his  own  and  throwing  aside  all  that  he  disliked 
or  condemned. 

"Ever  since,"  said  Rene,  "ever  since  our  first  meet- 
ing under  the  archway,  I  have  felt  that  there  was 
something  in  you  that  I  desired  to  understand,  some- 
thing that,  without  my  understanding  it,  has  made 
more  difference  than  any  other  thing  in  my  life." 

Kilner  leaned  forward. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "now  we  know  where  we  are.  Most 
men  pretend  with  me  that  they  keep  the  emotional 
side  of  their  nature  for  women.  They  don't  give  it 
them,  God  knows  what  they  do  with  it.  Most  men  also 
confuse  their  emotions  with  their  imaginations.  I 
think  that  is  why  they  spend  their  lives  in  the  uncom- 
fortable search  after  comfort." 

"And  women?"  asked  Rene. 
222 


KILNER 

"You  and  I  are  not  concerned  for  the  present  with 
women.  It  seems  to  me  that  you  and  I  are  in  this 
queer  place  for  much  the  same  reason,  because  we 
were  incapable  of  letting  our  lives  run  along  the  lines 
laid  down  for  them.  I  don't  know  what  you  are 
after;  perhaps  you  don't  know  yourself,  but  I  want 
to  tell  you  what  I  am  after.  I'm  not  a  great  reader 
of  books.  Some  of  them  may  have  said  what  I'm 
trying  to  say.  ...  As  long  as  I  can  remember  I 
have  had  the  intensest  joy  through  my  eyes.  I  think 
I've  said  that  before.  It  doesn't  matter.  I  see  things. 
At  first  it  was  just  the  crude  pleasure  of  form.  One 
thing  after  another,  I  let  the  whole  world  unroll  be- 
fore my  eyes  until  I  was  drunk  with  delight  in  it 
and  nearly  mad.  Then  forms  began  to  have  a  mean- 
ing and  to  melt  into  each  other.  I  began  to  see  re- 
lations between  different  forms.  Beauty  began  to 
sing  in  color.  With  form  and  color  the  world  was  so 
rich  that  the  strain  upon  my  sight  was  an  agony.  My 
greed  brought  me  to  seek  consolations  which  unfor- 
tunately did  not  console.  If  I  accepted  comfort,  then 
I  lost  my  delight  in  form  and  color  and  was  not  com- 
fortable. I  found  that  the  way  out  of  that  was  to 
select  and  concentrate.  I  could  only  select  in  a  certain 
passionate  mood.  In  an  ecstasy  I  felt  truly  that  I 
could  recognize  the  object  in  the  contemplation  of 
which  I  could  find  the  greatest  joy,  a  joy  equal  to  that 
of  human  love,  and  having  this  advantage  over  it  that 
it  need  not  be  expressed  in  physical  experience.  But, 
once  felt,  it  must  be  expressed.  I  do  my  best  in  paint, 
but  it  always  seems  impossible — except  when  I  am 

223 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

actually  working.  When  I  look  at  what  I  have  done, 
then  I  know  that  it  is  impossible.  One  can  give  a  lit- 
tle singing  hint  of  it  and  no  more.  And  then  again, 
turning  from  that  to  life,  one  is  disgusted.  Every- 
where such  coarseness,  such  greed,  such  meanness,  such 
conceit.  Yet  to  nurse  that  disgust  is  to  feel  the  joy 
fade  away,  to  hear  the  song  of  it  die  down.  There 
is  no  justice  then,  no  kindness,  and  the  world  is  so 
horrible  that  the  soul  takes  refuge  in  a  sorry  silence. 
Youth  is  then  a  heated  torment  from  which  there  is 
no  escape,  but  in  a  kind  of  death  that  brings  decay 
and  poisons  love.  .  .  .  There,  if  you  can  understand 
that,  you  can  understand  me.  I  cannot  surrender 
my  vision  either  to  comfort  or  to  my  own  disgust." 

They  were  silent  for  some  moments.  Then  Rene 
said: 

"In  here,"  he  touched  his  breast,  "I  know  that  you 
are  right.  I  have  been  trying  all  this  time  to  under- 
stand you  with  my  brain,  but  now  that  seems  only  to 
be  a  sieve  through  w*hich  to  pass  what  you  have  said. 
You  see,  I  have  never  tried  to  express  anything,  but 
there  have  been  times  in  my  life  when  I  have  been 
moved  enough  to  understand  faintly  what  you  mean. 
Disgust  ?  I  know  that  too.  Almost  everything  I  have 
ever  done  seems  to  me  now  to  have  been  the  result  of 
disgust.  I  suppose  that  is  why  I  am  what  I  am.  But 
I'm  glad  you  came  in  to-night.  I  was  going  through 
another  crisis  of  disgust;  I  go  from  one  to  another." 

"I  know,"  said  Kilner.  "A  man  does  when  he  seeks 
to  find  love  only  in  women." 

Rene  winced.     His  friend  laughed  at  him: 
224 


KILNER 

"Oh,  you  are  not  the  only  one.  It  begins  very  early. 
Women  exploit  their  motherhood  as  they  have  ex- 
ploited their  womanhood  to  get  us.  It  is  not  their 
fault.  Men  have  kept  their  joy  from  them  and  pre- 
served their  brutishness.  There  is  an  even  more  bitter 
disgust  lying  in  wait  for  those  who  seek  to  find  love 
only  outside  women." 

Ann  came  in  on  that.  She  stopped  inside  the  door, 
and  glowered  at  the  painter. 

"Oh,  so  you've  come  back?" 

"Yes,"  said  Kilner,  rising.    "Like  a  bad  penny." 

"Don't  get  up.  I  ain't  no  lady.  You  been  talk- 
ing?" 

"Yes,"  said  Rene.  "Shall  I  make  some  tea?  Had 
a  good  evening?" 

"No.  Rotten."  She  had  not  moved  from  the  door. 
Her  eyes  came  back  to  Kilner.  "You  can  go  on  talk- 
ing. I'm  off  to  my  bed." 

And  she  slipped  from  the  door  into  the  bedroom. 
Rene  met  his  friend's  eyes.  They  were  grimly  ironi- 
cal. 


VII 

OLD  LUNT 

The  glass  is  full,  and  now  my  glass  is  run: 
And  now  I  live,  and  now  my  life  is  done. 

OLD  Lunt  was  a  dirty  old  man  who  wore  a 
cracked  bowler  hat  rammed  down  on  his  head, 
a  frock-coat  green  with  age,  trousers  that  hung  in 
loops  and  folds  about  his  lean  shanks,  and  boots  held 
together  with  leather  laces  and  bits  of  string.  He 
had  one  room  at  the  corner  of  the  mews,  and  he 
lived  God  knows  how.  Ann  always  said  that  he 
would  stand  on  the  doorstep  of  a  butcher's  shop  and 
sniff  like  a  dog,  and  stay  there  until  they  flung  him 
a  scrap  of  meat.  On  a  Saturday  night  he  was  to  be 
seen  prowling  about  the  shops,  feeling  the  rabbits  and 
fowls,  and  then  shuffling  away  as  though  his  appe- 
tite had  been  satisfied  through  his  fingers.  He  never 
shaved,  but  clipped  his  beard  close.  The  skin  hung 
so  loose  on  his  jaws  that  shaving  would  have  been 
perilous.  His  eyes  were  gray,  watery,  and  red-rimmed, 
and  he  had  ears  like  red  rosettes. 

He  used  to  watch  for  Rene  to  come  out,  and  then 
wait  by  his  own  door  to  see  if  the  car  left  the  yard. 
If  it  did  not,  then  he  would  come  shambling  along 

226 


OLD  LUNT 

and  stand  at  the  gate  of  the  yard.  And  if  Rene  were 
working  on  his  car  he  would  edge  nearer  and  nearer 
until  he  could  peer  into  the  engine.  Often  he  would 
stand  quite  silent,  and  go  away  without  a  word.  Oc- 
casionally he  would  talk  and  mumble. 

"I  remember  when  there  warn't  no  railways,  and 
my  brother  Philip  drove  his  horses  from  Glossop  to 
Sheffle.  They  used  to  say  there  wouldn't  be  no  en- 
gines. But  there  was  engines.  Then  they  said  there 
wouldn't  be  no  engines  on  the  road.  But  there  is 
engines  on  the  road.  And  things  grow  worse  and 
worse  for  poetry." 

With  variations,  that  was  his  customary  address. 

About  once  a  month  he  would  sidle  up  to  Rene  and 
beg  for  the  loan  of  one  shilling,  and  ten  days  or  a 
fortnight  later  he  would  return  a  penny  or  two- 
pence. 

"Interest,  interest.  Times  bad.  I  must  ask  you  to 
extend  the  loan." 

Sometimes  he  would  give  the  coppers  wrapped  up  in 
old  ballads  telling  of  murders  and  hangings,  ship- 
wrecks, battles,  national  events,  some  in  print,  some 
in  writing,  all  dirty.  In  this  way  Rene  became  pos- 
sessed of  an  ode  to  the  Albert  Memorial : 

Proud  monument,  thou  Christmas  cake  in  stone! 
The  thing  thou  meanest  never  yet  has  grown 
In  English  soil,  a  virtue  not  content 
To  be  its  own  reward,  a  virtue  bent 
On  cheating  life  of  man  and  man  of  life. 
We  English  have  rejoiced  in  the  strife 
Of  being,  till  that  virtue  chilled  our  blood 

227 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

And  had  us  hypnotized  and  nipped  in  bud 
Our  aspiration.     We  of  Shakespeare's  line 
Had  in  our  living  made  our  life  divine 
Till,  as  we  grew  accustomed  to  look  at  you, 
We  worshiped  man  transformed  into  a  statue. 

This  poem  was  written  on  the  inside  of  a  grocer's 
bag,  and  when  it  was  handed  to  Rene  it  contained 
threepence.  It  was  signed  Jethro  Lunt,  and  dated 
April  4,  1887. 

One  day  Old  Lunt  extended  his  usual  observations, 
and  ended  by  asking  morosely : 

"Did  you — did  you  read  my  poems?" 
"Why,  yes,"  answered  Rene,  "all  of  them." 
"Have  you  really  now  ?    No  one  has  read  my  poems 
for  thirty  years.    It's  only  the  old  ballads  I  sell  now, 
and  them  not  often.    The  newspapers  do  all  the  mur- 
ders and  hangings.     Till  the  halfpenny  newspapers 
came  in,  I  could  sell  a  murder  or  two  in  certain  streets. 
I  had  one  about  Charley  Peace: 

Charles  Peace,  he   played  the  violin. 
Music  excited  him  to  sin 
Like  drink  with  other  men. 

Maybe  you  never  heard  that?" 

"No.     I  never  heard  that." 

"No.  I  thought  you  wouldn't  have.  You'd  hardly 
be  born  then.  Hard  it  is  to  remember  that  there  are 
some  so  young  they  might  almost  have  been  born  into 
another  world." 

He  fumbled  about  in  the  tails  of  his  coat,  humming 
228 


OLD  LUNT 

and  crooning  to  himself,  and  presently  he  produced  a 
litter  of  papers  and  held  them  out  diffidently,  and  so 
shyly  that  he  turned  his  head  away  as  Rene  put  out 
his  hand  for  them. 

"There's  forty  years'  work  there,"  he  said.  "Forty 
years.  I  was  thirty-five  when  I  began  it,  thirty-five, 
and  hopeful,  and  I  finished  it  five  years  ago.  I  wanted 
to  know  if  you  think  there's  any  chance  of  its  being 
published  in  a  book.  I'd  like  to  leave  a  book  behind 
me.  I've  been  forgotten.  I'd  like  someone  to  be  re- 
minded of  me.  I've  been  mortally  afraid  of  the  young 
ones  till  you.  There's  something  lucky  about  your 
face,  something  that  shines  in  it.  There  was  many 
faces  like  yours  in  my  young  days,  but  there  was  no 
golden  statue  in  the  Gardens  then,  and  this  must  have 
been  meadows  down  to  the  river  side." 

He  pressed  his  lips  together  and  mumbled.  Rene 
asked  him  if  he  could  do  with  a  shilling,  but  he  re- 
fused, seemed  so  hurt  that  he  shriveled  and  went  away. 

Rene  kept  the  manuscript  and  read  it  during  his 
off  hours  on  the  stands.  It  began  nobly  on  foolscap, 
in  a  bold,  spiky  hand,  and  ended  pitifully  on  old 
envelopes  and  leaves  torn  out  of  penny  account  books 
or  yellowing  sheets  from  ancient  volumes.  Thirty 
lines  were  written  on  the  back  of  the  title  page  of  a 
copy  of  The  City  of  Dreadful  Night.  It  was  some 
time  before  he  could  find  his  way  through  the  manu- 
script. The  sheets  were  not  numbered,  and  they  were 
in  no  sort  of  order.  Slowly  he  pieced  the  poem  to- 
gether, and  perceived  that  it  was  an  epic  in  ten  cantos, 
blank  verse  varied  with  odes.  It  was  called  Lucifer 

229 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

on  Earth,  or  the  Rise  and  Fall  of  British  Industry, 
and  it  was  many  days  before  its  first  reader  could 
make  anything  out  of  its  confusion.  The  Gods 
change:  it  is  difficult  to  make  anything  in  this  cen- 
tury of  the  God  of  1860.  Clearly  Jethro  Lunt  hated 
that  God.  In  fierce  rhetoric  he  denounced  His  claim 
to  omnipotence,  but  where  exactly  his  .grievance  lay,  it 
was  impossible  to  discover.  Lucifer  in  the  poem  strug- 
gled out  of  Hell,  and,  catching  the  Almighty  in  a  mo- 
ment of  boredom,  unseated  Him  and  sent  Him  down 
to  the  Infernal  Regions  for  a  space  to  see  how  He 
would  do  there,  and  afterward,  in  his  spleen,  com- 
manded Him  to  dwell  on  earth.  So  God  arrived  one 
day  in  a  village  in  Derbyshire,  and,  acting  upon  the 
commercial  principles  always  employed  in  his  dealings 
with  man,  got  the  inhabitants  to  apply  the  mental 
processes  till  then  only  used  in  the  practice  of  religion, 
to  their  everyday  life.  Then  the  community  became 
possessed  of  a  horrid  energy,  set  love  of  gain  above 
love  of  life,  and  soon  the  old,  quiet  society  of  squire, 
farmer,  and  laborer  was  broken  up,  mills  were  built 
in  the  village,  their  great  stacks  belched  forth  smoke 
over  the  hills  so  that  the  heather  was  dirty  to  lie 
upon ;  the  women  left  their  homes  to  work  in  the  mills, 
and  children  were  taken  to  help  them.  And  wherever 
God  went,  the  same  thing  happened. 

Meanwhile  Lucifer  was  enraged  to  find  that  he  was 
not  worshiped  as  he  had  hoped.  The  churches  also 
had  gone  into  business.  In  Hell  he  had  taken  some 
pleasure  in  the  sins  of  the  flesh,  but  these  had  now 
become  so  mean,  so  grubby,  and  so  stealthy  that  his 

230 


proud  spirit  was  revolted  by  them,  and  he  said  that  if 
men  liked  to  fritter  away  their  substance  in  such 
trumpery  they  might  do  so  for  all  he  cared,  and  to 
occupy  himself,  he  began  to  investigate  the  divine 
power  which  sustained  Heaven  and  Earth.  Then  he 
perceived  that  God  had  usurped  this  power  and  abused 
it.  He  set  himself  to  master  it,  and  when  he  had  done 
so,  waited  until  men's  love  of  gain  had  brought  them 
to  an  intolerable  strain  so  that  they  must  release  the 
spirit  in  themselves  or  perish.  Then  he  went  down 
upon  the  earth  and  engaged  God  in  mortal  combat  so 
that  they  both  perished,  and  man  was  left  alone  to 
work  out  his  own  salvation,  for  to  such  desperate  issue 
had  God  brought  them  in  His  mischief.  Upon  the 
earth  there  were  singers  born  of  sorrowful  women  left 
in  anguish  by  the  evils  of  war  and  peace,  not  know- 
ing which  was  the  worse.  Slowly  their  songs  came 
to  the  ears  of  men,  and  then  in  fierce  conflict  they 
wrought  upon  God's  perdition  until  they  had  made  it 
shine  in  the  likeness  of  beauty. 

That,  so  far  as  Rene  could  make  out,  was  the  out- 
line of  Old  Lunt's  poem.  Interspersed  were  odes  in 
condemnation  of  Queen  Victoria,  the  Duke  of 
Wellington,  Lord  Tennyson,  Gladstone,  Sir  Edward 
Burne-Jones,  Augustus  Harris,  Bulwer  Lytton,  and 
Thackeray;  in  praise  of  Beaconsfield,  George  Mere- 
dith, Charles  Darwin,  Cobden,  Bradlaugh,  General 
Booth,  and  Charles  Stewart  Parnell. 

No  critic  of  verse,  Rene  was  unable  to  judge  of  the 
work's  poetic  merit,  though  he  had  a  shrewd  idea  that 
it  was  small.  Historically,  it  was  very  valuable  to  him. 

231 


YOUXG  EARNEST 

The  picture  was  horrible,  of  an  England  dotted  with 
communities  screwed  up  in  their  own  vileness,  of  an 
energy  turned  in  upon  itself,  desperately  striving  to 
satisfy  a  demand  itself  had  created.  The  tension  must 
have  been  terrific,  and  the  most  pitiful  part  of  the  poem 
was  its  revelation  of  the  author's  gradual  yielding  to  it, 
the  slow  ruin  of  his  hopes,  the  growing  repulsion  from 
a  world  in  which  he  refused  to  live  except  upon  his 
own  terms.  It  was  possible  to  mark  the  exact  mo- 
ment of  his  plunge  into  despair,  for  two-thirds  of  the 
way  through  he  suddenly  dropped  from  verse  (grow- 
ing more  and  more  halting)  into  prose: 

"Art  is  a  world  of  beauty  where  there  is  a  logic  not 
of  this  world,  but  until  I  have  seen  beauty  here  how 
can  I  hope  to  reach  it?  I  must  have  wings,  and  if  my 
soul  can  find  neither  love  nor  friendship,  how  can  it 
ever  be  fledged  for  flight?  Hatred?  That  would  be 
something.  I  cannot  hate  mediocrity.  I  can  only  let 
it  wither  me." 

And  he  let  himself  be  withered,  though  in  that 
agony  there  were  moments  when  the  words  poured 
melodiously  from  his  brain. 

The  last  sheet  was  terrible.  It  contained  only  a  brief 
description  of  his  room,  the  grubby  ceiling,  the  sacks 
on  which  he  lay,  the  peeling  paper  on  the  walls,  the 
cracked  window  stuffed  with  rags. 

"I  lick  my  lips,"  he  wrote  in  a  savage  scrawl.  "Bit- 
ter !"  Then  he  had  made  a  blot  thus : 


and  against  it  he  had  written :   "My  world." 

232 


OLD  LUNT 

Twice  after  Rene  had  read  the  manuscript  did  Old 
Lunt  appear  in  the  yard,  but  he  crept  away  as  soon 
as  there  seemed  any  danger  of  his  being  accosted. 
And  then  he  did  not  come  again. 

A  busy  time  followed,  and  he  was  forgotten  except 
that,  to  please  him,  Rene  had  ordered  a  typewritten 
copy  of  the  poem  to  be  made — that  being  the  nearest 
possible  approach  to  the  book  of  his  desire.  This  copy 
came  home  at  last.  Ann  was  asked  to  bind  it,  and  did 
so  neatly  with  the  green  cloth  she  had  for  flower  stalks. 
Then,  a  night  or  two  later,  it  was  taken  to  Kilner,  for 
him  to  decorate  the  cover.  He  had  been  told  of  it, 
tried  to  read  it,  but  could  not.  However,  he  designed  a 
decoration  for  the  cover  and  printed  the  title  and  the 
author's  name  in  bold  letters,  and  beneath  each  he 
placed  a  blot.  That  part  of  the  manuscript  appealed 
to  him  more  than  all  the  rest. 

"That,"  he  said,  "is  what  the  world  is  to  all  your 
comfortable  people,  behind  the  charm  and  excitement 
with  which  they  cover  and  disguise  it.  The  only  differ- 
ence between  them  and  your  old  man  is  that  he  fought 
to  get  some  light  on  it  and  lost.  I  would  rather  be  he 
than  they.  He  does  take  his  world  with  him;  theirs 
they  leave  behind,  caught  in  the  meshes  of  their  facti- 
tious morals  and  conventions." 

"But,"  said  Rene,  "isn't  he  leaving  his  world  all 
written  out?" 

"No,  the  tale  of  how  he  sank  beneath  its  weight.  It 
is  true  enough,  anyhow,  to  have  stirred  you  into  a  de- 
sire to  give  him  pleasure.  He  has  roused  you  exactly 
as  I  have  been  trying  to  do  these  last  months." 

233 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"That's  true.  I  do  keep  trying  to  get  light  on  that 
little  black  world,  but  I  say  to  myself  that  after  all  the 
sun's  light  is  quite  enough." 

"It's  enough  for  beasts  and  trees.  It  isn't  enough 
for  men  unless  they  will  consent  to  live  like  beasts,  at 
the  mercy  of  their  instincts,  in  competition  with  the 
beasts,  and  have  a  very  nasty  time  of  it.  No.  No. 
The  light  your  friend  was  after  is  the  light  of  the 
imagination.  Let  your  light  so  shine.  He  had  never 
had  it,  never  more  than  the  will  to  have  it.  Proba- 
bly he  drank  or  took  to  some  other  form  of  vice  to 
console  himself  in  his  more  difficult  moments.  You'll 
never  know.  Probably  we  all  know  that  is  worth 
knowing.  Young  men  often  make  blots  like  that  be- 
cause life  is  such  an  infernal  long  time  in  beginning; 
but  for  an  old  man — well,  it  looks  like  a  sober  con- 
clusion, as  though  he  really  had  faced  a  fact,  and  had 
the  sense  of  humor  to  go  on  living  in  spite  of  it. 
There!" 

He  had  finished  the  cover. 

"I  hope  he'll  like  it." 

Rene  took  it  that  same  evening  to  Old  Lunt's  room. 
It  was  behind  a  stable  and  harness  room  used  by  a 
grocer  as  a  store.  Its  one  window  looked  out  on  a 
blank  wall  of  yellow  brick.  For  the  rest  the  room  was 
exactly  as  the  old  man  had  described  it ;  not  a  stick  of 
furniture  in  it;  sacks  thrown  in  a  corner,  and  on 
these  Old  Lunt  was  lying  with  his  legs  crossed,  his 
hand  under  his  head,  smiling  up  into  the  dim  light. 
The  setting  sun  struck  the  yellow  wall  outside  the 

234 


OLD  LUNT 

window,  and  the  upper  part  of  the  room  was  filled 
with  an  apricot-colored  glow.  Dust  danced  in  the 
light.  The  room  was  filled  with  an  acrid  sweetish 
smell. 

Manuscript  in  hand,  Rene  stepped  forward. 

"Good  evening,  sir,"  he  said,  "I  thought  you " 

He  stopped,  for  he  knew  that  the  old  man  was  dead. 
He  had  known  it  before  he  began  to  speak,  but  the 
sound  of  his  voice  brought  home  to  him  the  mockery 
of  words.  Raising  the  cold  right  hand,  he  laid  The 
Rise  and  Fall  of  British  Industry  beneath  it. 

The  light  died  down.  The  glow  sank  into  the  gloom. 
He  crept  away,  told  the  woman  next  door  that  Lunt 
was  dead,  and  she  said  she  would  go  at  once  to  the 
crowner's  office. 


VIII 
RITA  AND  JOE 

And  it  seemed  the  very  door-hinge  pitied 
All  that  was  left  of  a  woman  once, 
Holding  at   least  its  tongue   for  the  nonce. 

A  NN  had  always  known  Old  Lunt.  As  far  back 
-**•  as  she  could  remember  the  mews  had  been  her 
playground,  and  the  old  man  coming  and  going  had 
been  a  part  of  the  scene. 

She  seemed  to  connect  the  silence  that  visited  her 
mate  after  his  death  with  him,  for  she  filled  it  with 
reminiscence  and  stories  about  him.  He  used  to  sing 
queer  old  songs,  and  sometimes  he  could  be  persuaded 
to  tell  about  the  country  where  he  came  from  and 
flowers  and  birds;  yarns  about  his  father's  farm  and 
the  happiness  he  had  had  on  it  until  it  came  into  his 
brother's  hands,  and  his  brother  had  gone  into  the 
manufacturing.  Then  there  was  no  home  for  him  in 
the  old  stone  house. 

For  all  her  talk  Ann  could  not  break  in  upon  Rene's 
silence,  and  his  eyes  would  implore  her  to  cease,  yet 
she  could  not  cease.  She  went  on  and  on  talking,  for 
she  dreaded  his  silence  as  she  dreaded  his  solemnity. 
They  made  life  heavy  and  evil  for  her.  If  a  man  was 

236 


RITA  AND  JOE 

unhappy,  there  were  plenty  of  distractions  and  conso- 
lations. Everybody  was  unhappy  at  times,  but  no  one 
in  his  senses  clung  to  his  unhappiness  the  way  Renny 
did.  It  was  an  exasperation  to  her  to  have  him  like 
this — "mooning  and  dithering  to  himself" — because 
he  had  been  so  much  more  complacent  and  docile  than 
she  had  expected.  She  had  looked  for  trouble,  but 
he  had  slipped  into  her  ways,  and  shared  her  pleasures 
with  an  astonishing  ease  and  grace,  so  much  so  that 
she  had  had  the  mortification  of  hearing  two  women 
in  the  mews  arguing  about  him: 

"Garn!     'E  ain't  no  scholard." 

"  'Struth.    'E's  a  college  gent." 

"  'Im !  They  might  come  to  see  a  working  girl,  but 
they  wouldn't  take  up  with  'er." 

The  trouble  she  had  looked  for  should  have  been 
between  herself  and  him,  and  she  was  prepared  to 
tackle  it  so  soon  as  it  showed  its  head,  but  this  trouble 
he  kept  to  himself,  outside  her.  And  though  she  called 
it  unhappiness,  she  knew  well  enough  that  he  was  not 
unhappy. 

Indeed,  it  was  a  joy  to  him  to  find  himself  more 
and  more  alive  to  the  world,  the  little,  grubby,  amus- 
ing corner  of  it  in  Mitcham  Mews,  and  the  great 
roaring  whirlpool  outside  in  which  lay  his  work.  His 
pleasure  in  London  was  no  longer  purely  emotional ;  no 
longer  did  he,  as  it  were,  implore  London  to  let  him 
be  a  part  of  it.  He  was  working  in  it,  contributing 
to  its  life,  to  its  bustle  and  noise ;  but  since  his  talks 
with  Kilner  and  his  reading  of  the  poetical  works  of 
the  old  ragamuffin,  he  had  been  able  little  by  little  to 

237 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

detach  himself  from  it  and  watch  all  that  was  going 
on.  Truly  there  was  never  a  more  amusing  city! 
Everything  was  on  show.  Everybody  had  the  air  of 
expecting  to  be  looked  at  and  admired ;  though  every- 
body pretended  also  that  he  or  she  had  no  such  ex- 
pectation. When  provincials  arrived  in  London  they 
seemed  to  feel  all  this  and  to  wince  before  it,  but  soon 
they  perked  up  their  heads  and  behaved  as  though 
all  eyes  were  upon  them.  And  they  went  to  the  show- 
places,  those  of  which  there  had  been  talk  in  their 
homes  from  their  earliest  recollection.  But  everything 
else  also  was  a  show  to  them.  More  and  more  the 
shops  tended  to  become  shows.  Government  offices 
were  being  pulled  down  and  rebuilt  to  make  more 
show.  Exalted  personages  were  bent  on  making  a 
show  of  their  common  humanity.  Even  in  the  city, 
the  offices  in  which  Londoners  worked — the  counting- 
house  behind  the  shop — were  being  razed  to  the  ground 
to  give  place  to  colossal  palaces  of  ferro-concrete  and 
marble  and  plate-glass.  Motor-cars  were  growing 
more  and  more  garish  and  glossy;  the  advertisements 
on  the  hoardings  were  more  and  more  crudely  col- 
ored. For  whom  was  the  show?  For  whom  was 
all  the  outpouring  and  display  of  wealth?  Hardly, 
thought  Rene,  for  Mitcham  Mews,  that  sink  of  the 
submerged  and  those  who  could  only  just  hold  their 
heads  above  water.  He  thought  he  could  find  the 
answer  in  the  miles  and  miles  of  little  houses  like  the 
house  in  Hog  Lane,  six  rooms,  attics,  and  cellars,  con- 
stantly stretching  out  to  the  west  and  to  the  east ;  the 
unceasing  expansion  of  mediocrity,  a  flooring  of  con- 

238 


RITA  AND  JOE 

crete,  warranted  fireproof,  to  keep  the  fantastic  cre- 
ations of  wealth  uncontaminated  by  the  sources  from 
which  wealth  sprang. 

These  were  no  general  speculations.  As  he  de- 
tached himself  from  the  spectacle  of  London,  and 
observed  and  brought  humor  and  charity  to  bear  on 
his  observations,  it  became  more  and  more  clear  to 
him  that  in  this  fantastic  atmosphere  he  could  not 
live.  He  was  conscious  of  energy  within  himself. 
Upward  from  Mitcham  Mews  led  to  the  mediocrity 
of  the  little  houses,  to  those  who  lived  in  the  daz- 
zlement  of  the  shows,  forgetting  life,  forgetting  death. 
Downward?  There  was  no  downward  without  sink- 
ing into  the  disgusting  vices  which  repelled  him.  Be- 
yond the  mediocrity  wras  only  the  show  where 
everything  was  sterilized,  thought  castrated,  art  her- 
maphrodite. (Kilner  knew  too  much  of  that.)  At 
the  same  time,  he  felt  that  his  present  mode  of  life 
could  not  go  on  much  longer.  There  would  certainly 
be  a  move  from  Mitcham  Mews,  but  he  wanted  it 
also  to  be  a  decision,  not  a  mere  change  of  houses. 

Ann  returned  to  her  idea  of  trying  a  new  country, 
and  for  a  time  he  played  with  the  idea.  It  had  its 
seductions.  The  long  voyage:  the  indolent  life  on 
board  ship;  the  possibility  as  they  slipped  away  from 
existence  in  England  of  shedding  those  elements  in 
themselves  which  prevented  the  full  sympathy  desired 
by  their  affection;  the  settling  in  a  country  where 
class  differences  were  not  so  acute.  But,  he  felt  rather 
than  saw,  that  would  mean  isolation  with  Ann,  and  his 
feeling  was  against  it.  When  she  tried  to  discuss  it 

239 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

with  him,  to  get  him  to  consider  the  respective  merits 
of  Canada  or  Australia,  he  was  evasive  in  his  replies 
and  soon  forced  her  to  drop  it.  She  would  show  a 
little  disappointment,  but  would  reassure  herself  by 
saying : 

"There's  no  place  like  old  England,"  or:  "Sally 
Wade's  in  Canada,  and  she  does  miss  dear  old  Lon- 
don." 

He  was  so  absorbed  in  his  thoughts  and  his  growing 
certainty  that  he  did  not  notice  how  few  of  his  even- 
ings he  spent  with  her.  Because  she  was  cheerful,  he 
imagined  that  she  must  be  rinding  her  own  amuse- 
ment and  satisfaction.  He  saw  a  great  deal  of  Kilner, 
and  when  the  painter  was  otherwise  engaged,  liked 
to  be  out  in  the  streets  on  duty.  Without  knowing 
why,  he  had  begun  to  desire  to  save  money.  Every 
shilling  put  by  added  to  his  sense  of  independence 
and  potential  freedom.  He  had  commenced  with  a 
money-box,  but  rinding  Ann  one  day  shaking  coins 
out  of  it,  he  opened  an  account  with  the  Post  Office 
Savings  Bank.  He  said  nothing  to  her  at  the  mo- 
ment and  was  angry  with  himself  for  letting  it  pass, 
but  it  was  impossible  to  reopen  the  subject  later.  He 
told  himself  that  Mitcham  Mews  was  no  harbor  of 
strict  morals,  that  its  inhabitants  did  more  or  less  what 
they  wanted  to  do,  and  therefore  made  it  enjoyable 
for  him  to  live  among  them.  (That  was  the  reason 
Kilner  had  given  him  for  living  among  the  very  poor. 
They  had  the  same  liberty  as  the  very  rich,  with  none 
of  their  pretensions  or  false  responsibilities.)  He  had 

240 


RITA  AXD  JOE 

dismissed  the  matter  from  his  mind  when  it  was 
brought  home  to  him  one  night  on  his  returning  late 
from  work. 

Rita  and  her  husband  lived  opposite  Martin's  yard. 
As  he  came  out  of  it,  Rene  was  confronted  by  Ann 
leaving  their  house  with  a  basin  under  her  arm. 

"I've  been  seeing  Rita,"  she  said.  "Joe's  been  out 
of  work  since  the  coal  strike,  and  he's  going  on  the 
drink.  Her  time's  coming,  and  someone's  got  to  do  for 
her.  It  was  for  her  I  took  the  money." 

"I — I  beg  your  pardon,  Ann.  Why  didn't  you  say 
so  before?" 

"It  was  the  way  you  looked,  Renny,  dear.  You 
do  frighten  me  so." 

"I'm  sorry.    Can  I  do  anything  to  help?" 

"It  may  be  to-morrow.  Anyway,  soon.  Would  you 
mind  keeping  Joe  away  ?  He's  not  your  sort,  I  know, 
but  he  must  be  kept  away." 

"All  right.  He  shall  be  kept  away.  Is  she  in  for 
a  bad  time?" 

"I'm  afraid  she  is.  Work's  been  so  skeery  of  Joe 
these  times  that  it's  been  all  she's  been  able  to  do  to 
feed  the  children." 

"That's  bad.  But  she  ought  to  have  thought  of 
herself." 

"Sometimes,"  said  Ann,  "there  isn't  room  for  every- 
body to  be  thought  of.  If  you  can  get  through 
a  day  or  two  it's  as  much  as  you  can  manage  without 
thinking  what's  going  to  happen  in  a  month's 
time." 

"Don't  you  ever  look  ahead,  Ann?" 
241 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"No.  What's  the  good?  Whenever  I  do,  it  only 
frightens  me." 

"Are  you  frightened  of  anything  now?" 

"A  little." 

They  had  reached  their  room  and  she  had  begun 
to  wriggle  out  of  her  clothes. 

"I  don't  like  your  being  frightened,  my  dear. 
There's  nothing  can  hurt  us,  and  being  hurt  is  no  great 
thing." 

"All  in  the  day's  work,  eh?  Oh,  well.  Some  things. 
But,  don't  you  see,  I  think  I'm  going  to  be  like  Rita." 

"Ann!" 

She  looked  at  him  queerly,  almost  maliciously. 

"What  did  y 'expect?    Making  me  so  fond  of  you?" 

He  said  lamely: 

"I— I  hadn't  thought  of  it." 

She  was  stung  into  silence.  Presently  she  crept  into 
bed  and  lay  with  her  face  to  the  wall.  In  a  tone  of 
almost  petulant  disappointment  she  said  at  length : 

"I  fancied  that  was  why  you  were  putting  by  all 
that  money.  I  was  pleased  about  that,  I  was." 

Rene  sat  on  gloomily  in  the  outer  room,  listening, 
waiting  for  her  to  go  to  sleep.  He  was  full  of  resent- 
ment against  he  knew  not  what.  Her  almost  cynical 
practicality?  Her  acceptance  without  wonder  of  the 
new  fact?  As  with  the  rest  of  his  life,  so  now  he  was 
able  to  detach  himself  from  her.  She  had  been  pleased 
with  him  because  he  had  begun  to  make  provision,  as 
she  thought,  against  the  probable  event.  She  had  an- 
nounced the  event  as  one  regretting  the  pleasantness 
of  the  past,  almost  as  one  diffidently  presenting  a  bill 

242 


RITA  AND  JOE 

— commercialization.  Horribly  their  relationship  was 
stripped  of  their  individualities ;  they  were  just  a  man 
and  a  woman  separated  by  that  which  they  had  to- 
gether created.  They  had  known  kindness  and  fel- 
lowship, mutual  forbearance  and  gratitude,  and  now 
they  were  despoiled  of  these  good  things.  He  was 
left  impotent  while  she  bowed  to  the  disagreeable 
fact  and  was  absorbed  in  it.  And  he  began  to  see 
that  they  had  long  been  borne  toward  this  separation, 
and  to  escape  from  the  pain  of  it  he  had  turned  to 
Kilner  and  the  things  of  the  mind,  while  she  had  com- 
forted herself  with  the  things  of  the  flesh,  the  suf- 
ferings of  the  child-ridden  Rita,  who  now  seemed  to 
him  typical  of  the  life  of  the  mews,  a  creature  crushed 
by  circumstance,  by  responsibilities  which  she  could 
not  face,  a  house  which  she  could  not  clean,  children 
whom  she  could  neither  feed  nor  clothe,  a  husband 
whom  she  was  unable  to  keep  from  deterioration.  And 
to  think  that  for  one  moment  he  had  seen  beauty  in 
her,  when  she  had  appeared  almost  as  a  symbol  of 
maternity,  which  must  be — must  it  not? — always  and 
invariably  beautiful  and  to  be  worshiped.  His  idealism 
came  crumbling  down  as  he  could  not  away  with  the 
knowledge  that  Ann  had  lost  in  beauty  for  him. 

It  was  no  revulsion,  no  withering  of  his  feeling  for 
her;  rather  it  was  that  the  brutal  fact  had  a  burn- 
ing quality  to  peel  away  the  trimmings  from  what  he 
felt. 

He  found  himself  groping  back  in  his  life  before 
Ann  came  into  it.  Nothing  quite  the  same  had  hap- 
pened to  him  before.  The  perishing  of  his  young 

243 


YOUXG  EARNEST 

desire  had  left  him  in  a  whirling  excitement  which 
contained  less  torture  than  this  obsession  of  cold  re- 
alization. Bereft  now  of  all  that  had  made  his  life 
good  and  pleasant  and  amusing,  he  could  only  appre- 
ciate Ann  and  the  experience  that  lay  before  her,  ap- 
preciate, but  not  understand.  That  was  too  horrible. 
She  had  been  so  dear  to  him ;  such  a  good,  kind,  true, 
brave  little  soul.  The  resentment  that  he  could  not 
altogether  escape  he  visited  on  Rita,  as  Ann  had  from 
the  first  visited  hers  on  Kilner. 

Why  should  Kilner  on  the  one  hand,  and  Rita  on 
the  other,  draw  them  apart?  Why  had  they  created 
nothing  that  could  be  shared  outside  themselves  ?  Why 
should  that  which  they  had  created  destroy  that  which 
they  had  valued  in  their  life  together?  Why — and  he 
came  firmly  back  to  his  real  obsession — why  should 
they  have  so  isolated  themselves  that  the  natural 
consequence  of  their  love,  if  love  it  were,  should 
be  an  intrusion,  a  shock  greater  than  they  could 
bear? 

He  listened  again.  Ann's  breathing  seemed  to  tell 
that  she  was  asleep.  He  crept  in  to  her.  She  was 
awake.  After  what  seemed  an  age,  she  said  in  a  dry, 
weary  voice : 

"I  keep  trying  to  think  what  kind  of  a  house  you 
lived  in." 

He  described  Hog  Lane  West. 

"No.     The  other  one,  I  mean." 

"Oh,  that?"  He  told  her  it  was  like  a  little  house 
in  some  Gardens  not  far  away. 

Then  in  the  same  dry,  weary  voice  she  said : 
244 


RITA  AND  JOE 

"I  have  been  trying  to  think  what  she  felt  when  you 
left  her." 

"For  God's  sake,"  cried  he,  "for  God's  sake  keep 
that  out  of  it." 

"I  do  try  to,  Renny,  dear.  But  I  can't  help  think- 
ing about  her  sometimes  when  you're  like  that " 

"Don't  talk  about  it,  Ann,  don't  talk  about  it.  Go 
to  sleep." 

"Kiss  me,  then.  I  couldn't  go  to  sleep  till  you'd 
kissed  me.  Not  to-night.  It  is  all  right,  isn't  it?" 

"Oh,  yes.     It's  all  right,  bless  you." 

"I  don't  want  to  be  a  drag  on  you,  Renny,  dear.  It 
is  a  blessing  we're  not  married,  isn't  it?" 

"That  doesn't  matter." 

"That's  what  I  say.  If  it's  right  it  can't  stop,  can 
it?  If  it's  wrong,  it  must." 

He  kissed  her  to  stop  her  talking.  She  sighed  con- 
tentedly, slid  her  arm  into  his  and  pressed  her  face 
against  his  shoulder. 

"Good  night.    We  have  been  happy." 

And  in  two  minutes  she  was  asleep.  He  too  was 
glad  of  the  happiness  they  had.  He  was  a  little  in- 
fected with  her  fatalism.  If  there  were  to  be  calami- 
ties, there  had  been  stores  of  frank  pleasure  and  true 
delight  to  draw  upon  in  defense  against  them. 

By  killing  off  an  imaginary  grandmother,  Ann  pro- 
cured a  half -day  off  from  her  work  and  spent  the 
afternoon  with  Rita,  who  was  weak  and  dispirited  by 
the  great  heat  which  filled  the  mews  with  stale  air 
and  brought  old  fumes  and  stenches  from  the  stables. 

245 


EARNEST 

There  had  been  thunder  and  storms,  and  the  two 
youngest  children  were  down  with  colic.  Joe  had 
disappeared  with  Click  and  Billy,  who,  to  Rita's  great 
distress,  had  begun  to  seek  her  husband's  company 
and  to  give  him  money — at  least  she  supposed  they 
did,  for  he  had  nowhere  else  to  get  it.  All  day  long 
Rita  talked  about  a  bed  her  mother  had  bought  for 
the  best  bedroom  just  before  she  married  again,  a 
beautiful  bed  with  four  big  brass  knobs  and  sixteen 
little  brass  knobs,  and  a  bit  of  brass  making  a  pattern 
at  the  head.  And  it  had  a  real  eiderdown,  and  the 
springs  were  not  like  ordinary  springs,  but  spirals. 
When  she  had  exhausted  the  wonder  of  the  bed  she 
began  an  endless  story  of  the  aspidistra  and  Mr. 
'Awkins  who  undertook  to  water  it  and  forgot  for 
a  whole  week,  when  the  leaves  one  by  one  went  yel- 
low and  brown.  Into  this  story  was  woven  all  the 
romance  that  had  ever  crept  into  Rita's  life,  and  as 
a  good  deal  had  crept  in  through  the  unlikeliest  cor- 
ners, it  was  a  long  story.  She  kept  it  going,  as  it 
were,  by  killing  off  the  leaves  of  the  aspidistra  to  mark 
the  chapters.  Mr.  'Awkins  was  a  wonderful  man,  but 
he  never  quite  said  it,  and  Joe  wouldn't  take  no  for 
an  answer,  and  Joe  really  did  seem  to  be  fond  of  her, 
"and  mother  could  be  awful."  Besides  Joe  did  prom- 
ise to  make  a  home  for  her,  and  they  did  go  and  look 
at  furniture  on  Saturdays,  but  always  after  they  had 
looked  at  furniture  they  used  to  go  to  music-halls, 
so  they  never  had  the  money  to  buy  it.  And  then 
they  got  married. 

For  hours  Ann  sat  listening  to  the  woman's  voice 
246 


RITA  AND  JOE 

droning  on.  The  elder  children  had  been  taken  charge 
of  by  neighbors.  The  others  needed  constant  atten- 
tion. Joe  came  home  in  the  evening,  merrily  drunk. 
Ann  met  him  at  the  door  and  told  him  he  could  not 
come  in.  He  swore  at  her  and  vowed  he  would.  She 
struggled  with  him.  He  was  fuddled  and  uncertain  on 
his  legs,  and  she  very  quickly  had  him  slithering  down 
the  stairs.  He  sat  at  the  bottom  and  roared: 

"Jezebubble !  That's  what  you  are!  Jezebubble! 
Throwing  people  down!" 

Ann  had  gone  to  the  window,  and  seeing  Rene  in 
the  yard  opposite,  she  called  to  him  and  told  him  to 
take  Joe  away  and  make  him  sober.  Rene  came  run- 
ning up,  dragged  Joe  to  his  feet,  lugged  him  into 
the  yard,  and  held  his  head  under  the  tap.  Joe  splut- 
tered and  cursed,  and  when  he  was  released,  stood  up 
with  the  water  streaming  from  his  hair,  eyes,  and 
mouth.  He  showed  fight.  Rene  caught  him  by  the 
neck  and  threatened  to  turn  on  the  tap  again  unless 
he  showed  himself  amenable  to  reason. 

Ann  called: 

"Take  him  away." 

Rene  nodded,  picked  Joe  up  in  his  arms,  and  threw 
him  on  the  floor  of  his  car  and  drove  him  out  far  be- 
yond Uxbridge  into  the  country.  There  by  a  black 
pinewood  they  stopped.  Rene  got  down  and  laughed, 
for  Joe  had  picked  himself  up  and  was  sitting  perkily 
with  his  thumbs  in  the  armholes  of  his  waistcoat, 
with  his  hat  on  one  side,  pretending  to  be  a  lord. 

"Aw!  Chauffah!"  he  said.  "Dwive  me  to  Picca- 
dilly Circus.  I  want  to  buy  a  box  of  matches."  Chang- 

247 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

ing  his  tone,  he  added:  "You  don't  'appen  to  'ave  a 
fag  on  yer,  guvnor?" 

Rene  gave  him  a  cigarette  and  a  match,  lit  one 
himself,  and  sat  by  the  side  of  the  road. 

"Was  that  a  joy  ride?"  asked  Joe. 

"No  charge,"  replied  Rene. 

"I've  spat  in  the  car.    Is  there  any  charge  for  that  ?" 

"I'll  smack  your  head  if  you  do  it  again." 

Joe  looked  warily  and  solemnly  at  him,  then  de- 
liberately spat  on  the  floor  of  the  car. 

"That,"  he  said,  "is  to  show  I  know  you're  a  gen- 
tleman, and  what  I  thinks  of  yer." 

Rene  dragged  him  out  of  the  car,  smacked  his  head, 
and  flung  him  into  the  bracken. 

"I'll  have  the  law  on  yer,"  yelled  Joe,  trying  to  shout 
himself  into  a  fury. 

"Then  you'll  have  to  walk  home.  Maybe  that  would 
sober  you." 

"No  'arm,  me  lord,  no  'arm.  It's  looking  for  work, 
guvnor,  that's  what  it  is.  It  makes  you  fuddled. 
'Struth  it  does.  Here  am  I  with  five  children,  doing 
my  duty  by  my  country,  and  I  can't  get  work.  Five 
children.  'Good!'  says  you,  being  a  gentleman  and 
well  provided  for.  'Who's  to  support  'em?'  says  I. 
'You,'  says  you.  'Let  me  work,'  says  I.  'There  ain't 
no  work,'  says  you.  'There's  going  to  be  work  for  as 
few  as  possible  in  this  'ere  country,'  you  says.  'Chuck 
your  flaming  union/  you  says,  'blackleg  the  bloody 
unionists,'  you  says,  'and  there'll  be  heaps  of  work  at 
one  farving  per  hour.'  'Five  children,'  says  I.  'Good,' 
says  you,  'They've  got  hungry  little  bellies,'  says  I. 

248 


RITA  AND  JOE 

'Have  they?'  says  you.  'Let  'em  come  and  watch  the 
blokes  coming  to  my  dinner-party  to-night.'  "  He  had 
worked  himself  up  to  an  excitement  which  he  could 
not  contain,  and  he  burst  into  tears. 

"  'Struth  is,  sir,"  he  said  presently,  "I  ain't  getting 
enough  to  eat,  and  you  know  how  it  is  with  my 
missus." 

"Ann  Pidduck  is  looking  after  her,"  said  Rene, 
"and  I  promised  to  look  after  you." 

"Woffor  did  you  take  me  out  into  the  bloomin' 
country?" 

"I  hardly  know.  One  doesn't  worry  about  distance 
in  the  car.  She  said:  'Take  him  away.'  So  I  took 
you  away.  I'm  afraid  I  have  rather  a  literal  mind." 

"Well,  it's  pretty  here,  ain't  it?  I  took  my  eldest 
into  the  country  once.  When  he  got  back  he  said  to 
his  mother,  he  said:  'There  was  parrots  in  all  the 
trees,  and  as  for  cows  there  was  more  than  one.' 
'E'd  never  seen  any  bird  but  sparrows  and  a  parrot. 
I  s'pose  he  thought  anything  bigger  than  a  sparrow 
must  be  a  parrot.  What  they'll  grow  up  like,  Gawd 
knows,  and  He  don't  care.  It  makes  me  sick  to  think 
of  another  one  coming.  I'd  like  to  know  what  the  'Ell 
Gawd's  playing  at  making  a  man  so  that  'e  'as  a  great 
love  o'  women  and  can't  get  enough  t'eat.  Us  work- 
in'-men  ought  to  be  eunuchs,  so  we  ought.  If 
you  got  a  spark  o'  spirit  in  you  it  does  you  down 
every  time.  You  can  take  me  back  now,  guvnor.  I'll 
be  good." 

He  climbed  up  into  the  car,  resumed  his  lordly  atti- 
tude, lit  a  cigarette,  and  said : 

249 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"  'Ome,  and  drive  like  'Ell.  I'll  stand  the  bally 
fines." 

The  pathos  of  the  man's  grotesque  humor  spring- 
ing up  through  his  misery  moved  Rene  so  much  that 
he  forgot  his  own  perplexity  and  desired  only  to  please 
him.  He  drove  back  full  tilt,  guessing  that  it  was 
late  for  the  "controls"  to  be  manned,  and  they  reached 
the  yard  just  as  the  lamps  in  the  mews  were  being 
lit.  As  they  came  out  of  the  yard  they  saw  a  police- 
man standing  at  the  door  opposite.  Joe  put  Rene 
between  himself  and  the  constable,  and  they  went  up 
to  Ann's  room.  There  the  electrician  peeped  out. 

"I  say,"  he  said,  "I  say.    They've  blabbed." 

"Blabbed!    What  do  you  mean?    Who's  blabbed?" 

"It's  Click  and  Billy  I  mean.  They'd  got  stuff.  I 
don't  know  where  they  got  it.  They  made  me  help 
get  rid  of  it.  I  'ad  to  get  money  somewheres.  Click's 
a  Catholic,  and  he  says  stealing  isn't  stealing  if  you're 
starving.  They  must  have  been  nabbed.  I  ain't  a 
thief,  guvnor.  I  only  helped  get  rid  of  the  stuff.  They 
said  I  could  because  I  was  known  respectable.  Re- 
spectability ain't  done  me  no  good  afore." 

"Keep  quiet,"  said  Rene.  "He'll  hear  you.  Perhaps 
he  isn't  waiting  for  you." 

"  'E  ain't  moved.  I  know  how  they  look  when 
they're  on  the  cop.  Devils!  Sly  devils!  I  seen  'em 
take  Click  afore  now  and  old  Bessie." 

"Be  quiet,  you  fool.  Sit  down  and  have  something 
to  eat." 

He  placed  three  cold  sausages  in  front  of  Joe.  They 
vanished.  He  produced  a  piece  of  ham.  That  was 

250 


RITA  AND  JOE 

soon  gnawed  to  the  bone.  Half  a  loaf  of  bread  and  a 
small  tin  of  bloater  paste  soon  followed,  and  Joe  began 
to  caress  his  stomach  affectionately. 

"Look  here,"  said  Rene.  "What  will  it  mean  if 
they  get  you?" 

"First  offender.  I'd  get  off,  all  right.  But  the 
crooks  '11  never  let  me  alone,  and  the  police  '11  have  me 
marked  down  as  a  man  to  nab  if  ever  they  want  a 
'spected  person." 

"All  right.  You  sit  here.  I'll  go  and  see  how  things 
are  over  there." 

The  policeman  eyed  Rene  as  he  went  in. 

"Want  anything?" 

"No,  sir.     No." 

"There's  nothing  going  on  here,  nothing  unusual. 
Confinement." 

Ann  heard  his  voice  and  came  down  to  him.  They 
walked  up  the  mews.  Rita  was  in  a  delirium.  She 
kept  reproaching  Joe  over  and  over  again  for  not  buy- 
ing a  fire-screen  he  had  promised  her.  And  then 
she  seemed  to  be  living  over  again  in  some  scene 
of  jealousy.  Joe  must  not  come  near  her.  It 
might  not  be  safe.  Rene  told  her  his  news.  Ann 
said: 

"She  guessed  that.  It's  that's  broken  her  up  so. 
She  thinks  she  isn't  a  respectable  woman  any  longer.  I 
don't  know  that  it  wouldn't  be  best  to  let  him  be 
taken." 

"But  doesn't  that  mean  that  he's  done  for?  You 
know  better  than  I." 

"You  don't  get  much  of  a  chance." 

251 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"Then  we'll  do  what  we  can.  Tell  the  policeman  he 
isn't  sleeping  here  to-night." 

"All  right.  All  right.  I  don't  think  I'll  be  back 
till  the  morning,  and  then  I'll  have  to  go  to  work.  So 
good  night,  Renny,  dear.  It  is  good  of  you." 

They  parted.  He  heard  her  tell  the  policeman  how 
things  were  in  the  house,  and  that  Joe  would  not  be 
sleeping  there  that  night,  but  at  his  mother's  off  the 
Fulham  Road.  The  policeman  asked  for  the  address, 
and  she  gave  it  him  pat,  and  after  a  moment  or  two 
he  rolled  away.  Rene  gave  him  three  minutes,  then 
returned  to  Joe  and  told  him  what  had  happened, 
gave  him  a  shilling  for  a  doss,  and  asked  him  to  meet 
him  in  the  morning  at  the  cab-rank  in  Lancaster  Gate. 

"If  I  pay  your  passage  to  Canada,  will  you  go? 
You  can  get  a  start  out  there  and  have  your  family 
out  after  you.  We'll  look  after  them." 

"Will  I  go?"  cried  Joe.  "I've  had  enough  of  this 
'ere  blasted  country.  Will  I  go?  D'you  know  that's 
been  in  my  mind  ever  since  that  there  joy  ride.  I  says 
to  myself,  I  says,  moving's  that  easy.  You  been  stuck 
still,  Joe,  my  buck,  that's  what's  been  the  matter  with 
you." 

Rene  kept  cave  while  the  poor,devil  slunk  out  of  the 
mews,  and  then  followed  him,  saw  him  mount  a  bus 
and  be  borne  away  eastward,  standing  up  and  waving 
his  hand  as  long  as  he  was  in  sight. 

His  passing  left  Rene  stranded.  He  had  been  caught 
up  in  the  eddy  of  that  little  drama,  and  then  flung 
back  into  his  solitude,  and,  though  he  was  cheered  by 
his  activity,  he  was  also  depressed  by  the  horrid  grub- 

252 


RITA  AND  JOE 

biness  of  the  life  that  had  been  revealed  to  him; 
nothing  in  the  world  for  Joe  but  the  procuring  of 
food,  the  bare  satisfaction  of  desire ;  an  amused  fond- 
ness for  his  children.  That  horrible  capacity  for  hap- 
piness in  degradation. 

He  stood  below  the  lighted  window  of  Rita's  room. 
A  moaning  came  out  of  it.  A  thin  voice  almost 
screaming : 

"Oh,  don't,  Joe,  don't!" 

There  were  appalling  silences.  Then  whisperings. 
A  long  silence  that  chilled  him  to  the  heart.  At  length 
the  cry  of  the  new-born  child,  a  cry  of  pain.  Then 
again  silence,  broken  only  by  the  sound  of  water  and 
the  clink  of  metal  against  crockery. 

In  that  moment  Rene  became  almost  unbearably 
alive  to  the  suffering  of  the  woman,  and  to  all  suffer- 
ing, and  to  his  own. 


IX 
TALK 

For  thus  hath  the  Lord  said  unto  me,  Go,  set  a  watchman, 
let  him  declare  what  he  seeth. 

T  T  takes  an  unconscionable  long  time  to  extort  money 
*•  from  the  Post  Office  Savings  Bank,  and  Rene  bor- 
rowed from  his  employer  to  pay  Joe's  passage  and  the 
guarantee  demanded  by  the  Canadian  immigration  au- 
thorities. Joe  could  not  thank  him,  but  only,  with 
tears  in  his  eyes,  shake  him  by  the  hand. 

"You  know,"  he  said,  "I  could  never  have  gone  if 
I'd  once  been  in  prison.  That's  where  they  has  you. 
If  wishing  could  do  it,  you'll  have  good  luck.  And  if 
praying's  any  good  I  don't  mind  trying  that,  though 
I'm  not  much  of  a  hand  at  it  and  out  of  practice." 

He  gave  Rene  a  crumpled  dirty  letter  to  Rita,  and 
bade  him  tell  her  that  his  last  thought  was  for  her, 
and  that  when  she  came  out  he  would  be  on  the  quay 
to  meet  her. 

"I've  told  'er  in  my  letter  it  was  you  put  a  heart 
into  me,  guvnor.  I'd  been  feeding  on  it  that  long  it 
was  nearly  all  eat  away." 

At  last  the  train  moved — (Rene  had  taken  him  to 
the  station  with  his  few  possessions,  smuggled  out 

254 


TALK 

under  the  very  eyes  of  the  policeman) — Joe  leaped  into 
his  carriage  and  sang  out: 

"So  long!" 

"Good  luck !"  cried  Rene,  as  he  moved  away  through 
the  crowd  of  tearful  women  and  young  men  on  the 
platform. 

As  he  was  leaving  the  station  he  met  Kurt,  just  re- 
turned from  a  flying  visit  to  Thrigsby.  He  explained 
that  he  had  been  called  away  on  business  or 
would  have  been  round  before  to  pay  his  promised 
visit. 

"I  told  them  at  home  I'd  seen  you.  My  mother 
turned  on  a  face  like  a  window-shutter — you  know,  the 
iron  kind  they  have  in  Paris,  and  clank  down  in  the 
small  hours  of  the  morning  just  to  make  sure  no  one 
shall  sleep  the  night  through.  Funny  old  thing!  I 
suppose  she  regards  you  as  one  dead.  Silly  thing  to 
do,  when  I'd  just  told  her  you  were  very  much  alive. 
Linda  was  quite  excited  and  started  pumping  ujp  all 
sorts  of  emotions  until  I  asked  her  how  long  it  was 
since  she  had  even  thought  of  you.  Then  she  stopped 
that  game.  She  knows  it  isn't  any  use  with  me.  I 
once  said  to  her,  'My  dear  girl,  if  you  really  felt  all 
the  emotions  you  pretend  to  feel,  you'd  be  dead  in  a 
week.'  I  never  could  stand  that  sort  of  thing  myself. 
She  gets  them  out  of  books,  you  know,  and  really 
sometimes  it  is  quite  impressive,  or  would  be,  if  it 
weren't  so  disgustingly  false.  It  is  wonderful  to  feel 
things,  but  you  can't  feel  things  all  the  time  and  be 
sane.  No  one  can.  One's  too  busy.  It's  beastly  to 
make  that  sort  of  thing  cheap  as  they  do  on  the  stage 

255 


and  in  Linda's  mucky  novels — Oh,  she's  written  an- 
other play,  all  about  my  mother  this  time.  Well,  after 
a  bit  she  cooled  down  and  I  told  her  you  were  quite 
pleased  with  yourself,  earning  an  humble  but  honest 
living.  She  wanted  to  know  if  you  were  alone.  I 
said  I  didn't  know,  but  anyhow  it  wasn't  her  affair. 
She  agreed,  and  said  that  anything  she  might  do 
wasn't  your  affair  either.  Then  she  talked  a  great 
deal  of  nonsense  about  your  being  the  New  Man,  with 
too  much  vitality  and  intellectual  energy  for  the  out- 
worn institutions  of  a  demoded  society,  and  a  lot  more 
rot  of  that  kind.  The  fact  is,  of  course,  that  she 
prefers  living  without  you  and  doesn't  want  any 
fuss.  The  scandal  had  made  her  interesting  to 
Thrigsby,  and  she  can  find  all  sorts  of  silly  people 
there  who  want  to  be  instructed  in  the  art  of  being 
advanced,  to  think  shocking  things  and  to  live  with- 
out shocks  of  any  kind.  Linda's  shock  is  keeping 
quite  a  lot  of  people  going.  I  told  her  I  should  see 
you  again  and  she  asked  me  to  give  you  her  love, 
and  to  say  that  she  is  quite  happy  and  hopes  you  will 
go  and  see  her  play  when  it  is  acted  in  London  by 
the  Thrigsby  Players.  I  say,  you  must  have  thought 
me  a  swine  that  day  at  Hendon.  That  was  a  Lord 
and  a  Lady.  These  people  haven't  any  manners,  and 
one  gets  like  them.  I'm  their  particular  pet  just 
now.  You  should  see  me  hobnobbing  with  Cabinet 
Ministers  and  theater  managers.  It  is  terrible  how 
alike  they  are." 

"You'll  see  a  bit  of  difference  if  you  come  to  Mit- 
cham  Mews,"  said  Rene. 

256 


TALK 

"I'll  come  to-night." 
"Good." 

Rita  had  come  successfully  through  her  ordeal,  and 
she  was  in  the  dreaming  bliss  of  having  her  baby  by 
her  side,  with  no  other  thought  in  her  mind  than  the 
satisfaction  of  its  contact,  the  blessed  charge  of  its 
helpless  little  life,  not  yet,  nor  for  a  long  time  to  come, 
separate  from  her  own.  Ann  took  Rene  up  to  see  her, 
and  he  gave  her  Joe's  letter  and  told  her  how  pleased 
he  had  been  to  go,  and  how  he  was  looking  forward  to 
her  joining  him.  To  account  for  his  sudden  disappear- 
ance they  invented  a  tale  of  an  offer  of  immediate 
work,  conditional  upon  his  sailing  at  once.  The  whole 
thing  had  been  so  sudden  (they  said)  that  there  was 
no  time  for  her  to  be  told  or  for  him  to  wait  to  see 
her.  Did  she  believe  them  ?  She  looked  incredulously 
from  one  to  the  other,  but,  holding  the  letter  tightly 
crumpled  up  in  her  hand,  she  decided  at  length  that 
it  was  a  good  thing  to  believe,  and  sighed  out  her 
thankfulness.  She  had  relations  who  would  help  her 
until  Joe  sent,  and  when  she  was  well  she  would  be 
able  to  work. 

Ann  had  engaged  old  Bessie  to  come  in  during  the 
day,  and  asked  Rene  if  he  would  mind  her  spending 
all  her  evenings  with  Rita,  and  sometimes  sleeping  with 
her  for  the  first  few  days.  He  was  only  too  glad  that 
she  had  found  a  task  which  could  absorb  her  energies. 
He  told  her  Kurt  was  coming,  and  asked  if  he  might 
bring  him  over  to  see  her.  She  had  seen  Kurt's  pho- 
tograph in  the  paper  and  was  quite  fluttered. 

257 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"Oh,  him!"  she  said.     "Fancy  you  knowing  him!" 
He  did  not  tell  her  how  Kurt  was  related  to  him. 

However,  Kurt  blurted  it  out  before  he  had  been 
with  Ann  five  minutes.  Rene  looked  sheepish. 

"Come,  now,  Miss  Ann,"  laughed  Kurt,  "you 
didn't  expect  him  to  have  no  one  belonging  to 
him  or  to  keep  him  hidden  away  from  us  forever 
and  ever.  Because  you  are  fond  of  him  you  don't 
expect  him  to  be  utterly  lost  to  all  his  friends, 
•do  you?" 

"I  didn't  know  he  had  a  friend  like  you,  Mr.  Brock, 
or  I  shouldn't  have  dared  to  be  fond  of  him — per- 
haps." 

"Is  that  a  tribute  to  my  personality  or  to  my  repu- 
tation." 

"Well,"  said  Ann,  "you  do  brighten  things  up." 

"One  for  old  Solemn!"  said  Kurt.  "I  hoped  you'd 
have  cured  him." 

"Oh !  I  don't  want  him  to  be  cured.  I  don't  want 
him  to  be  different." 

Rene's  vanity  was  bristling,  but  in  the  face  of  their 
good  humor  he  could  not  let  it  appear.  He  envied 
Kurt  his  ease  and  the  skill  with  which  he  gauged  Ann's 
humor  to  strike  laughter  out  of  her,  so  much  so  that 
he  could  not  mind  being  the  subject  of  it.  Her  laugh- 
ter was  affectionate. 

They  were  in  Rita's  room,  and  she  lay  gazing  fas- 
cinated at  Kurt's  brown  face,  with  its  merry  eyes 
flashing  blue  light  as  he  laughed  and  talked.  The 
children  had  been  told  that  the  great  flying  man  was 

258 


TALK 

coming.  They  had  been  staring  at  him  with  round 
eyes.  At  last  one  of  them  said : 

"Did  you  fly  here?" 

"Not  this  time,  my  lad." 

"Oncet,"  said  the  piping  voice,  "oncet  we  'ad  a  bird- 
cage." 

"With  a  bird  in  it?" 

"No.    We  kep'  a  ball  in  it  and  marbles." 

"What  happened  to  it?" 

"Farver  popped  it.    I  seen  an  airyoplane  oncet." 

"Did  you?     Where?" 

"In  ve  Park.     A  little  boy  'ad  it." 

"Right  ho!  We'll  send  you  an  airyoplane  like 
that." 

The  children  looked  at  each  other,  scared  at  this 
promised  good  fortune.  Then  they  embraced  and 
rocked  each  other  to  and  fro. 

Rene  and  Kurt  took  their  leave  and  passed  out  into 
the  mews. 

"Well?"  said  Rene.    "A  bit  of  difference?" 

"I  don't  know  about  that.  But  I'm  always  finding 
that  where  other  folk  see  only  riches  or  poverty  or 
manners  or  personal  tricks  and  habits,  I  see  only  peo- 
ple, and  they  are  much  the  same  everywhere.  I  nearly 
always  like  them.  I'm  not  like  you.  I  don't  expect 
anything  much." 

"Do  I?" 

"Always.  That's  what  one  loves  about  you.  You 
were  the  only  person  who  ever  expected  anything  of 
me,  and  you  gave  me  confidence  to  expect  something 
of  myself." 

259 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"Then  it's  not  a  bad  thing?" 

"It's  a  splendid  thing  in  a  way,  only  you  need  to  be 
able  to  love  a  lot  of  people  to  bear  up  against  your 
disappointments.  I  can't  do  that.  I  find  them  too 
amusing.  I'm  too  easily  pleased  with  everything  they 
do,  and,  of  course,  I  never  stop  to  think." 

"But  some  things  make  you  think." 

"What  things?" 

"Having  no  money  is  one  of  them." 

"I  don't  know  that  the  poor  worry  much  about 
thinking,  and  lack  of  money  is  chronic  with  them." 

"Joe  tried  to  think.  The  trouble  was  that  he  didn't 
know  how.  It  took  him  as  far  as  the  Trade  Union, 
and  left  him  there  expecting  it  to  do  the  rest.  That's 
the  trouble  all  round.  There  has  been  thinking  enough 
to  make  the  union,  but  not  enough  to  use  it.  The  mere 
fact  of  union  seems  to  swamp  thought,  even  in  the 
leaders.  When  they  speak  they  are  always  trying  to 
say  not  what  they  themselves  think,  but  what  they 
fancy  the  collective  body  of  men  wants  them  to  think. 
The  result  is  that  events  always  move  just  a  little 
too  fast  for  them,  and  they  are  tied  hand  and  foot 
and  left  to  the  mercy  of  the  capitalists  who  can 
afford  to  wait  longer  to  see  how  the  cat  is  going  to 
jump." 

"And  the  capitalists?" 

"My  friend  Martin  is  the  only  one  I  know.  But  I 
imagine  they  are  just  the  same.  They  expect  their 
money  to  do  their  thinking  for  them.  Money  and 
crowds  have  just  the  same  hypnotic  effect.  Do  you 
remember  on  one  of  our  tours  when  we  were  driving  at 

260 


TALK 

night  with  the  big  headlight  showing  up  the  road  fifty 
yards  in  front  of  us  ?  It  was  a  summer  night,  and  as 
we  flashed  past  trees  the  birds  for  a  moment  took  us 
for  the  sun  and  began  to  wake  up.  It  was  amusing, 
the  swish  of  the  wind  we  made  in  the  trees,  the  sudden 
singing  of  the  birds,  who  sank  to  sleep  again  in  the 
darkness  we  left  behind  us.  And  then  as  we  drove 
along  a  woodland  road  a  rabbit  darted  out  into  our 
light,  and  could  not  get  out  of  it.  If  we  drove  slowly 
he  ran  slowly.  If  we  put  on  pace  to  scare  him  away 
he  kept  ahead  of  us.  If  we  stopped  he  couched  down 
with  his  ears  back  and  his  eyes  starting  out  of  his 
head,  absolutely  confined  by  the  walls  of  darkness 
round  our  light,  and,  I  suppose,  hypnotized  by  his 
own  terror.  It  seems  to  me  that  human  thought  is 
a  light  like  ours,  and  that  individual  men  rush  into 
it  like  the  rabbit  and  cannot  get  out  of  it.  It  needs 
only  a  little  plunge  into  the  darkness  to  be  back  safe 
and  happy  in  your  own  life,  but  they  can't  take  the 
plunge.  We  were  able  to  turn  the  light  off  the  rabbit 
at  a  cross-road  to  let  him  go,  but  nothing  can  take 
the  light  of  human  thought  off  men.  The  analogy  is 
rather  interesting,  because  the  light  of  human  thought 
is  not  borne  by  a  horrible  engine,  but  only  seems  so  to 
those  who  are  hypnotized  by  their  own  terror,  and  it 
seems  normal  to  be  scurrying  away  from  it  and  to  die 
— morally — of  exhaustion.  A  few  men,  when  they 
come  into  the  light,  are  brave  enough  to  step  out  of 
it  to  discover  whence  it  comes.  They  find  it  kindled 
in  themselves  and,  tracing  it  to  its  source,  they  find  it 
in  the  will  to  live,  and  they  reach  the  determination 

261 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

to  carry  it  farther  over  the  world  they  live  in,  in  order 
to  break  down  the  walls  of  darkness." 

"That  is  rather  beyond  me,"  said  Kurt.  "I'm  no 
good  at  ideas.  If  you  let  me  keep  to  people  I'm  all 
right.  Some  people  do  me  good;  other  people  make 
me  feel  cramped  and  choked.  I'm  not  clever  enough 
to  know  why.  And  there  are  lots  of  nice  people  with 
whom  it  is  quite  enough  if  one  can  make  them  laugh. 
They  don't  seem  to  matter  either  way." 

"You  see,"  said  Rene,  "human  thought  doesn't  shine 
until  it  is  energized  with  feeling  and  brought  into  con- 
tact with  the  divine  power  that  keeps  things  going. 
That  is  what  the  scared  people  take  for  a  remorseless, 
swift,  destroying  engine." 

"I  remember  now,"  said  Kurt,  "that  Linda  said  you 
were  a  mystic.  That  was  when  you  were  an  economist, 
and  I  told  her  it  was  nonsense,  because  no  mystic 
could  read  a  page  of  Marshall — wasn't  that  your  fat 
book?" 

"I  don't  know  whether  it's  mysticism  or  not,  but  I 
can't  accept  experience  without  sifting  it.  I  suppose  if 
I  could  do  that  I  should  still  be  in  Thrigsby  keeping 
up  appearances." 

"And  Linda  would  never  have  written  her  plays. 
That  would  have  been  a  pity." 

"How  absurd  you  are,  Kurt.  But  you  seem  able 
to  sift  experience  before  it  comes  to  you.  You  seem  to 
be  able  to  do  the  right  thing  at  the  right  time." 

"I  never  worry  about  it.  Life  seems  so  simple  to 
me.  Directly  it  looks  like  being  complicated,  I  switch 
off  and  try  again.  The  only  thing  that  worries  me  is 

262 


TALK 

that  it  looks  horribly  as  though  I  should  never  marry. 
I  fall  in  love  all  right  and  somehow  that  always  com- 
plicates things,  so  then  I  fall  out  of  love.  I  can't  love 
a  complicated  woman,  and  I  haven't  met  an  uncom- 
plicated one.  They  all  want  to  feel  more  than  they 
do.  Play-acting,  I  call  it." 

Kilner  came  in  then.  He  greeted  Kurt  morosely, 
for  his  clothes  showed  that  he  came  from  the  brilliant 
world,  the  object  of  the  painter's  particular  detesta- 
tion, and  Kurt's  manner  might  easily  be  taken  for 
that  affability  which  puts  you  at  your  ease  and  so  dis- 
concertingly leaves  you  there. 

Rene  produced  beer  and  tobacco,  made  room  for 
Kilner  by  the  fireplace,  and  carried  on  the  discussion : 

"Kurt  says  women  want  to  feel  more  than  they 
do." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  replied  Kilner,  "but  my 
experience  is  that  they  generally  feel  more  than  the 
occasion  demands.  They  won't  leave  anything  to  the 
future.  I  don't  think  it  means  anything  except  that 
they  are  not  particular.  They  get  so  precious  little 
out  of  men  that  they  grab  what  they  can  and  let  con- 
sequences take  their  chance.  I  don't  blame  them  either. 
They  begin  by  taking  love  seriously,  so  seriously  that 
they  frighten  men  and  make  them  run  away.  I  keep 
clear  of  that,  not  because  I'm  frightened,  but  because 
I  can't  find  a  woman  who  hasn't  been  unbalanced  by 
having  had  some  idiot  run  away  from  her." 

"That's  like  Kurt,"  Rene  threw  in.  "I  expect  it  is 
because  you  both  have  a  passion  for  what  you  are 
doing.  It  gives  you  a  standard.  Now  I  don't  pretend 

263 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

to  have  a  passion  for  taxi-driving,  and  I  suppose  that 
is  why  I  take  seriously  things  that  you  two  are  able 
to  ignore." 

"H'm,"  growled  Kilner,  stretching  his  long  legs. 
"Not  much  in  that.  We're  both  keen  on  something 
which  demands  health  and  nerve  and  self-confidence, 
a  steady  hand  and  a  clear  head.  We  can't  afford  to 
throw  our  minds  and  passions  into  the  common  stock. 
I  starve.  Your  friend  has  the  world  at  his  feet.  But 
we're  both  outside  the  world,  and  have  as  little  truck 
with  it  as  possible." 

"Both,"  said  Rene,  "outside  the  hypnotic  circle." 
He  had  to  explain  that  to  Kilner,  who  was  excited  by 
the  idea. 

"I  never  thought  of  that,"  he  said.  "Yes,  by  Jove, 
it's  true.  They  are  hypnotized,  every  man  Jack  of 
them,  rich  and  poor  alike.  Nothing  can  shake  it  off 
except  the  individual  will.  Every  artist  has  to  go 
through  that.  And  your  light,  my  friend,  is  nothing 
but  the  vision  of  the  artist.  Only  hypnotism,  the  ab- 
solute surrender  of  the  will,  could  account  for  the 
horrible  distortions  that  appear  in  wrhat  they  call  art, 
what  they  call  morality,  the  organization  of  what  they 
call  society.  I  know  what  Fourmy  means.  The  in- 
fernal thing  is  always  cropping  up  in  my  work.  When 
an  artist  has  seen  what  he  wants  to  paint,  there  is  al- 
ways the  danger  of  his  being  hypnotized  by  it,  and 
if  he  doesn't  shake  free  of  that,  he  is  almost  bound 
to  paint  it  badly,  however  skillful  he  may  be.  He  may 
paint  a  picture  that  people  will  like,  but  he  won't  create 
a  work  of  art." 

264 


TALK 

"Isn't  it  possible  for  a  man  to  be  hypnotized  by  art  ?" 
asked  Rene. 

"If  he  is,  he  won't  be  an  artist.  I've  seen  students 
surrender  their  will  one  after  the  other  to  Raphael, 
Rembrandt,  Manet,  Cezanne,  not  to  their  love  of  truth 
and  beauty,  but  to  the  masterful  skill  which  their  love 
gave  them.  If  they  had  surrendered  to  their  love  their 
own  wills  would  have  been  strengthened,  not  de- 
stroyed. That  is  always  happening :  a  manner  is  imi- 
tated, mimicked  over  and  over  again  until  at  last  it 
is  so  vilely  done,  so  remote  from  the  original  as  to 
have  no  charm  to  lead  even  the  stupidest  little 
draughtsman  to  make  a  copy.  Is  it  so  in  life?  I  don't 
know.  Much  the  same,  perhaps.  Weren't  there  imi- 
tations of  Byron  for  generations  after  him?  Some- 
thing vile  the  brutes  could  imitate.  No  one  imitated 
Shelley." 

"Who  was  he?"  asked  Kurt. 

Kilner  stared  at  him  aghast. 

"A  poet.    The  poet." 

"I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  known,"  replied  Kurt, 
chuckling  at  Kilner's  annoyance,  "but  you  see  I  was 
brought  up  in  a  German  household.  There  was  a  fel- 
low called  Schiller  they  used  to  talk  about,  and  they 
named  a  club  after  him  where  they  used  to  eat  and 
drink." 

"And  what,"  asked  Kilner,  "made  you  take  to 
flying?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  always  loved  engines  and 
speed.  And  after  all,  you  know,  it  is  the  only  thing 
to  do." 

265 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"Kilner  thinks  painting  is  the  only  thing  to  do," 
interjected  Rene. 

"I  meant  for  me,"  answered  Kurt.  "That  may  be 
all  right  for  him.  I  hate  using  my  brains.  Things  get 
muddled  at  once  if  I  do.  I  love  using  my  body  so  that 
every  muscle  is  called  into  play,  and  I  loathe  illness. 
It's  torture  to  me  to  be  just  a  little  unwell.  I  get 
moments  out  of  my  work  that  make  everything  else 
seem  nothing  at  all,  just  something  to  laugh  at  and 
be  merry  over." 

"Something  like  that  is  my  life,"  said  Kilner.  "A 
few  moments,  only  they  are  not  enough  in  themselves. 
I  have  to  follow  them  up  in  spirit  and  express  them." 

"And  I,"  said  Rene,  "am  always  hunting  about  for 
those  moments  in  life  and  not  finding  them." 

"Ever  known  one?" 

"No,  but  I'm  absolutely  certain  they  are  there.  I 
never  knew  what  I  was  after  until  I  met  Kilner.  I'm 
not  certain  that  I  know  now.  But  I've  escaped  social 
hypnotism  so  far,  and  from  what  you  tell  me  I  seem  to 
IDC  less  in  danger  of  hypnotism  by  my  own  will  than 
either  of  you." 

"I  deny  that,"  cried  Kilner  angrily.  "You  are  de- 
nying the  supremacy  of  the  artist.  Just  because  you 
have  dodged  a  few  of  the  conventional  social  obliga- 
tions, you  think " 

"I'm  not  denying  anything  of  the  kind.  I  grant  you 
the  artist  is  supreme  and  his  vision  the  most  potent 
force  in  human  thought,  but  the  artist  also  must  be 
a  man  and  must  live,  or  there's  an  end  of  his  vision. 
He  must  be  prepared  if  necessary  to  live  in  the  hyp- 

266 


TALK 

notic  circle,  and  he  must  be  strong  enough  to  assert 
his  will  in  it." 

"That's  stupid,"  said  Kilner.  "As  if  any  of  us  could 
escape,  as  if  that  weren't  precisely  what  the  artist  does. 
Your  friend  here  is  the  lucky  one.  He  is  doing  a  new 
thing,  exercising  a  new  faculty  which  is  imperfectly 
developed,  so  that  it  is  not  yet  prostituted  and  abused, 
as  art,  science,  and  love  have  been.  He  is  still  a  won- 
der, even  to  fools.  I  who  aspire  to  art,  you  who 
aspire  to  love,  are  to  the  world  nothing  but  idiots 
who  have  not  the  nous  to  help  themselves  to  the  plun- 
der and  comfort  ready  to  their  hands.  But  you  and 
I  are  braver  than  he,  for  we  seek  greater  things.  He 
is  content  with  physical  health  and  adventure.  That 
is  something.  It  is  a  higher  aim  than  money  and 
money's  worth.  But  you  and  I  are  definitely  pledged 
to  accept  only  the  happiness  we  know  to  be  true,  and 
the  sorrow  to  which  our  wills  can  consent." 

"I  dunno,"  said  Kurt,  rising,  "but  I  daresay  there's 
a  good  deal  to  be  said  on  the  other  side.  I'm  not  so 
sure,  though.  I  know  lots  of  the  other  people,  and 
they've  never  given  me  such  an  amusing  evening.  I 
haven't  had  such  a  good  time  since  I  came  to  London, 
where  everybody  thinks  of  nothing  but  having  a  good 
time.  I'll  come  again.  Anyhow,  you're  not  worrying 
about  what  other  folk  are  thinking  of  you,  and  that's 
the  only  thing  I  can't  stand.  Good  night." 

Kilner  was  too  excited  to  go  to  bed,  and  he  kept 
Rene  up  till  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  talking  about 
a  picture  he  was  painting  of  God  creating  Eve  out  of 
Adam,  who  was  to  be  shown  in  an  attitude  of  sur- 

267 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

render,  though  his  body  gave  signs  of  a  fearful  agony. 
Yet  was  it  Adam's  will  to  submit  to  any  torture  to 
attain  the  knowledge  of  the  almighty  joy  of  creation. 

Rene  was  curious  about  the  woman's  share  in  the 
operation,  and  was  vaguely  distressed  to  find  that  in 
Kilner's  intention  Eve  was  to  be  no  more  than  beau- 
tiful. 

"But  is  she  to  have  no  share  in  creation  and  the 
joy  of  it?" 

Kilner  was  pacing  round  the  room.  He  waved  his 
fists  in  the  air. 

"Don't  you  see?  Don't  you  see?"  he  shouted. 
"Don't  you  see  that  we  have  created  her?  Even  if 
you  drop  the  myth  and  take  to  evolution,  don't  you 
see  that  woman  has  been  nothing  but  the  creature,  the 
instrument  of  reproduction?  Don't  you  see  that  man 
fell  in  love  with  her,  and  with  his  love  slowly  hu- 
manized her,  gave  her  intelligence,  humor,  charm?" 

"Might  it  not  be,"  said  Rene,  "that  woman  was 
first,  and  evolved  man  to  do  the  work  so  that  she 
might  reserve  more  energy  for  conception  ?  And  again, 
there  seems  no  reason  for  imagining  that  either  came 
first.  The  difference  in  sex  is  a  great  deal  more  super- 
ficial than  is  generally  supposed.  It  must  be.  It  is 
aggravated  by  environment  and  habit,  training  and 
physical  processes,  but  it  is  not  a  fundamental  dif- 
ference." 

Kilner  said: 

"You  may  be  right.  You  sometimes  are.  But  for 
the  purpose  of  my  picture  Eve  must  be  stupidly  beau- 
tiful, just  beauty  and  nothing  else.  If  you  like  I'll 

268 


TALK 

paint  another  Adam  and  Eve  when  he  has  begun  to 
love  her,  and  through  love  has  come  to  the  desire  of 
knowledge.  But  I'm  afraid  her  eyes  will  still  be  stupid, 
and  she  will  still  think  him  rather  a  fool  for  desiring 
anything  but  her." 


X 

AN  ENCOUNTER 

Nous  ne  dependons  point  des  constitutions  ni  des  chartes, 
mais  des  instincts  et  des  moeurs. 

T  NTELLECTUAL  conversation  is  a  very  common 
•••  vice  among  men  who  have  been  subjected  to  what 
is  called  education.  The  wages  of  it  is  commonly  a 
brutal  onslaught  by  the  body  upon  the  mind.  The 
intellectual  is  subject  to  accesses  of  bestiality  unknown 
to  the  manual  laborer,  who  for  that  reason  regards 
the  cultured  man  with  more  amusement  and  contempt 
than  respect  and  envy. 

It  was  impossible  for  Rene  to  surrender  to  his  ex- 
asperated senses.  He  was  too  certain  of  his  goal  for 
that,  though  he  could  not  on  any  side  perceive  a  way 
that  should  lead  him  to  it. 

Ann  was  devoting  herself  entirely  to  Rita  and  her 
family.  She  would  emerge  now  and  then  to  inspect 
him,  and  to  make  sure  that  he  was  not  straying  from 
the  path  of  good  sense.  She  scolded  him  roundly  for 
his  all-night  sitting  with  Kilner — (she  had  seen  the 
lighted  window  at  two  o'clock) — much  as  the  other 
women  in  the  mews  rated  their  men  for  drinking  or 
betting.  Having  delivered  herself,  she  returned  to  her 

270 


AN  ENCOUNTER 

usual  attitude  of  indulgence  and  affection,  kissed  him, 
tidied  his  hair  and  went  back  to  her  charges.  That 
might  have  satisfied  a  navvy,  but  it  did  not  satisfy 
Rene.  He  was  still  mentally  inflamed  with  Kilner's 
talk,  and  he  wanted  very  much  to  know  if  Ann  thought 
him  a  fool  for  desiring  anything  but  her.  He  was 
fairly  sure  she  did,  but  he  wanted  to  be  thoroughly, 
painfully  sure.  The  old  reaction,  you  perceive,  from 
visionary  enthusiasm  to  disgust. 

His  mood  made  him  thoroughly,  savagely  approve 
of  Mitcham  Mews.  It  had  character ;  not  a  nice  char- 
acter, still  an  appreciable  individual  quality.  Almost 
all  the  other  habitations  he  knew  of  in  London  were 
uniforms,  disguises.  Even  the  delicious  little  houses 
in  Westminster  were  consciously  Georgian  or  Queen 
Anne,  part  of  an  attitude.  .  .  .  He  was  wearying  of 
it  all.  He  had  caught  something  of  Kurt's  healthi- 
ness and  desired  to  do  something  that  contained  ad- 
venture and  risk,  and  the  exercise  of  more  than  habit- 
ual skill.  He  hated  being  at  the  beck  and  call  of 
any  man  or  woman  who  signed  to  him,  and  sometimes 
he  gave  himself  the  pleasure  of  ignoring  them  if  he 
did  not  like  their  looks.  Once  when  he  had  been  sum- 
moned by  whistle  to  a  house  in  Bayswater,  and  its 
door  was  opened  to  emit  a  large  Jew  and  an  expansive 
Gentile  lady  of  pleasure  bent  on  an  evening's  snouting 
in  the  trough  of  the  West  End,  he  put  his  fingers  to 
his  nose,  and  drove  off  as  hard  as  he  could.  That 
helped  to  put  him  on  better  terms  with  his  rebellious 
physical  existence.  He  had  insulted  it.  That  was 
something. 

271 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

But  he  could  not  subdue  his  excitement.  He  found 
two  poor  little  lovers  in  the  Park  one  night,  and  took 
them  out  into  the  country  free  of  charge.  That 
squared  the  outrage  on  the  Jew.  It  was  an  active 
step  toward  pure  romance.  The  little  lovers  had  oc- 
cupied less  and  less  space  in  the  car  as  he  brought 
them  home  under  the  moon,  and  his  engine  sang  a 
droning  bass  to  the  song  they  were  living. 

And  when  he  reached  home  he  was  brought  hard  up 
against  the  fact  that  he  was  Ann's  acknowledged  lover, 
and  that  she  was  going  to  have  a  child  by  him.  It  had, 
he  knew,  nothing  in  common  with  the  Jew,  but  also, 
he  could  not  help  feeling,  it  had  lamentably  little  in 
common  with  the  young  lovers.  It  was  a  fact  like  the 
nose  on  his  face,  a  part  of  himself,  no  getting  away 
from  it;  a  fact,  however,  that  brought  no  illumina- 
tion. The  nose  on  his  face,  he  thought,  must  have 
been  once  a  brilliant  discovery.  It  must  have  meant 
a  revelation  of  noses  that,  among  other  marvels,  there 
were  such  things. 

There  was  some  zest  in  the  fantastic  agility  of  his 
intelligence,  and  this  kept  him  going. 

One  night  as  he  was  passing  a  glaring  public-house 
in  Chelsea,  he  thought  he  saw  his  father  go  in  by  the 
door  of  the  bar  parlor.  He  drew  up,  stopped  his 
engine,  and  followed.  Sure  enough  it  was  his  father, 
aged  a  little,  grayer,  but  more  sprucely  clad.  Mr. 
Fourmy  was  already  the  center  of  a  little  group  stand- 
ing by  the  counter — painters,  models,  and  men  who 
looked  like  actors.  He  was  talking  away,  exactly  as 

272 


AN  ENCOUNTER 

he  used  to  do  in  the  Denmark,  with  the  same  result 
in  laughter  and  free  drinks.  Rene  ordered  a  Bass  and 
took  it  to  a  table  at  the  side,  removed  his  peaked  cap, 
and  waited  for  his  father  to  recognize  him.  This 
Mr.  Fourmy  did  in  a  few  minutes,  nodded  with  perfect 
coolness,  and  went  on  with  his  talk.  He  kept  it  up 
for  a  few  moments  longer,  "touched"  one  of  his 
hearers  for  half-a-crown,  and,  that  done,  let  the  con- 
versation flag,  the  group  dissolve,  and  came  over  to 
his  son. 

They  shook  hands.  Rene  grinned  as  he  saw  his 
father's  amazement  at  his  clothes. 

"Well,  I'm  jiggered,"  said  Mr.  Fourmy,  "I  was  fair 
flummoxed  when  I  saw  your  face.  I  didn't  notice 
your  togs.  I  never  thought  you  would  come  to  this." 

"I  shouldn't  have  done  any  good  in  your  profession, 
father." 

"So  you've  learned  some  sauce.    That's  new." 

"I've  learned  a  good  many  things,  father,  and  un- 
learned more." 

"Have  you  learned  what  a  rotten  hole  the  world 
is?" 

"No.     I  like  it  too  much  to  think  ill  of  it." 

"Then  you  haven't  had  a  really  bad  time.  I  hoped 
you'd  have  a  filthy  time.  You  needed  it  badly,  to 
let  some  of  the  gas  out  of  you." 

"It's  been  bad  enough,"  said  Rene.  "And  there's 
worse  ahead.  Are  you  living  in  London?" 

"I've  been  here  some  time.  It's  a  dung-heap.  I 
shall  go  over  to  Paris.  I'd  rather  die  there  than  any- 
where. There  is  French  blood  in  us,  I  believe,  and  I 

273 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

never  could  stomach  the  English  and  their  hypocritical 
ways.  What  did  they  say  of  Gladstone?  'Plays  with 
the  ace  up  his  sleeve,  and  pretends  God  put  it  there.' 
That's  the  English  way.  I  like  blackguards.  I'm  a 
blackguard  myself,  but  I  think  God  ought  to  be  kept 
out  of  it.  ...  You're  looking  fit." 

"I'm  fit  enough.  George  told  me  you'd  left.  I'd 
like  to  know  why.  I  don't  want  to  open  old  scores  or 
inquire  into  your  private  affairs,  but  it  seemed  to  me 
that  my  mother  was  very  good  to  you  when  you  came 
back." 

"Well It  was  the  same  old  trouble.  Religion. 

Marriage  is  none  too  easy,  as  you  seem  to  have  found. 
You  can  worry  through  if  you  play  fair  and  fight 
through  the  emotional  storms  that  threaten  to  drown 
you.  Now  it  isn't  fair  for  a  man  to  draw  off  his  emo- 
tional disturbances  in  drink  or  money-making  or  gam- 
bling or  flirtation;  and  it  isn't  fair  for  a  woman  to 
draw  off  hers  in  religion.  Women  are  devils  at  that. 
They  go  off  to  church  and  come  back  as  cold  as  ice, 
with  their  hands  full  of  little  parcels  of  principles  and 
precepts,  all  forgiveness  and  humility  and  submission 
and  iron  virtue.  Some  men  can  live  with  it.  I  can't. 
That's  the  whole  story." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Rene. 

"Now,  don't  think  hardly  of  your  mother.  She  was 
brought  up  to  think  all  men  horrible,  and  she  never 
got  over  it.  I  was  wild  and  idiotically  affectionate, 
and  couldn't  understand  why  she  held  back  so.  When 
I  did  understand,  the  mischief  was  done;  she  was  hurt 
and  scared,  and  kept  you  boys  from  me.  Didn't  want 

274 


AN  ENCOUNTER 

you  ever  to  be  men — as  if  she  could  prevent  it !  She 
did  try  with  me  when  I  came  back.  Perhaps  she'd 
seen  and  felt  more  than  I  thought.  It  wasn't  all  church 
nonsense  about  accepting  your  husband,  however 
loathsome  he  may  be  to  you.  Your  going  off  like  that 
set  her  back  again,  and  back  she  went  to  her  church. 
She  thought  it  was  all  my  doing,  and  perhaps  it  was." 

"No,  no,"  said  Rene. 

"I  think  it  was.  I  ought  to  have  seen  that  I  wasn't 
fit  company  for  anyone  I  loved.  Too  far  gone,  I  sup- 
pose, too  far  gone." 

"I'd  like  you  to  know  that  I'm  glad  it  happened. 
It  has  saved  me  from  going  through  life  with  my  eyes 
shut.  I've  met  good  people  and  understood  their  good- 
ness. And  I've  met  miserable  failures  and  seen  how 
even  they  have  some  sweetness  in  their  lives.  And  I 
owe  it  to  you,  father,  that  I  have  seen  the  wildness  of 
life  beneath  the  trumpery  policing  we  call  civilization, 
and  now  I  feel  that  I  shall  never  be  blind  to  it." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  his  father,  "if  you  don't  let 
the  wildness  break  up  your  own  self-control.  That's 
what  happened  to  me.  Queer  how  clever  two  men  can 
be  when  they  understand  each  other.  Can  you  lend 
me  half-a-sovereign,  and  then  I'll  have  enough  to  take 
me  over  to  Paris  ?" 

Rene  gave  his  father  ten  shillings  in  silver,  they 
shook  hands,  the  old  man  patting  the  younger's  shoul- 
der, and  they  quitted  the  bar  parlor  together. 

As  Rene  was  starting  his  engine,  a  lady  came  up  and 
asked  him  to  take  her  to  an  address  in  Holland  Park. 

275 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

He  did  so.  The  lady  looked  at  him  curiously  as  she 
paid  the  fare,  walked  to  the  gate  of  the  house,  turned, 
hesitated,  then  came  back. 

"Excuse  me,"  she  said,  "you  are  so  like  someone  I 
used  to  know.  Aren't  you  Mr.  Fourmy?" 

He  looked  at  her,  seemed  to  remember  her,  but  could 
not  place  her,  though  he  thought  dimly  of  Scotland. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "that's  my  name." 

"Mine,"  she  said,  "was  Rachel  Bentley.  I'm  mar- 
ried now.  I  recognized  you  at  once.  I  was  so  inter- 
ested coming  along.  I  hope  nothing  has " 

"Oh,  no,"  said  he,  smiling,  "I  never  had  any  money, 
you  know.  I  drifted  into  this.  I  like  it." 

"I  only  thought,"  she  said  vaguely.  "I  mean —  Oh, 
it  doesn't  matter.  I'm  glad  it  isn't  that.  Good-by." 

She  seemed  embarrassed  by  her  own  generous  im- 
pulse, and  it  was  a  relief  to  him  when  she  turned 
away.  He  waited  for  a  moment  to  see  if  it  was  her 
own  house.  She  opened  the  door  with  a  key.  He 
took  note  of  the  number,  and,  as  he  passed,  of  the  cab- 
rank  at  the  end  of  the  road. 

It  was  some  time  before  he  knew  why  he  had  done 
this,  many  hours  before  he  was  confronted  with  the 
image  of  Cathleen  Bentley,  in  the  woods  of  Scotland; 
Cathleen  shaking  the  bracken  from  her  hair,  smiling 
up  at  him  in  the  musing,  perplexed  happiness  of  her 
youth. 


XI 

VISION 

TroAAas  ftoSovs  fXOovra   «/>/30VTiSos  Tr 

rr\  HERE  came  a  letter  from  Joe  to  say  that  he  had 
-••  obtained  work  with  a  good  firm  within  a  week  of 
landing,  and  would  soon  be  able  to  save  or  borrow 
enough  to  pay  for  his  wife  and  children  to  join  him. 
Rita,  who  had  sunk  into  a  despondent  lethargy,  was 
roused  to  excitement  and  began  to  thrill  the  children 
with  tales  of  the  adventure  before  them.  She  quickly 
recovered  her  health  and  energy,  and  wrested  the  con- 
trol of  her  affairs  from  Ann,  who  did  not  like  it. 
Feeling  ran  high,  and  things  came  to  such  a  pass  that 
the  two  women  quarreled,  and  Rita  so  far  forgot  her- 
self as  to  fling  a  sneer  about  marriage-lines  at  her 
friend.  Ann  came  running  to  Rene  for  comfort,  and 
tried  to  enrage  him  at  the  tale  of  such  base  ingratitude. 
He  was  not  to  be  enraged,  however,  for  he  had  been 
pondering  the  subject  of  gratitude  and  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  he  who  lays  claim  to  it  forfeits  it.  He 
tried  to  explain  to  Ann  that  she  had  overdone  her 
kindness  and  should  have  known  the  moment  to  with- 
draw. She  was  dismayed. 

277 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"Of  course,"  she  cried,  "you  would  take  her  side 
against  mine." 

"It  isn't  a  question  of  sides.  You  couldn't  expect 
her  to  let  you  go  on  running  her  house  forever." 

"A  shiftless  little  fool  like  that!  I  wouldn't  have 
minded  if  she'd  only  said  'Thank  you.'  Not  a  word 
did  she  say,  but  just  flung  you  in  my  face.  And  now 
you  say  she's  right!  I  wish  you'd  never  come,  I  do." 

"Ann,  dear,  don't  be  silly." 

"I  do  wish  it  with  all  my  heart  and  soul.  You've 
made  me  be  different.  You've  made  me  want  to  do 
good  things,  and  then  you're  nothing  but  a  shadow 
slipping  away.  And,  oh!  it  does  hurt  so." 

"Dear,  dear  Ann,  don't  you  see  that  Rita  wanted  to 
get  rid  of  you  and  didn't  know  how  to  without  a 
quarrel  ?" 

"Why  should  she  want  to  get  rid  of  me  ?  Nice  mess 
she'd  have  been  in  without  you  and  me." 

"You  go  and  see  her  to-morrow,  and  you'll  find  her 
all  right." 

"I  don't  want  to  see  her  ever  again,  nasty  ungrateful 
rubbish!" 

"Then  I'll  go  and  see  her." 

"You  won't  see  me  again  if  you  do.  I  can  up  and 
off  when  I  like.  We're  not  married,  remember." 

"You  leave  me  nothing  to  say.  I've  learned  a  good 
deal  from  the  people  in  the  mews,  but  not  their  way  of 
quarreling." 

He  had  been  irritated  into  the  reproof  and  was  sorry 
as  soon  as  it  was  uttered.  She  was  furious.  Never 
before  had  she  lost  her  temper  with  him,  though  they 

278 


VISION 

had  had  wordy  passages.     Now  she  turned  and  rent 
him: 

"I  don't  believe  you're  a  man  at  all,  and  I  don't 
believe  you've  got  a  heart.  Squabble,  you  call  it?  I 
wish  you  would.  You  sit  there  with  your  fishy  eyes 
staring  at  nothing,  thinking,  thinking,  thinking. 
What's  the  good  of  it  all?  Who's  right  and  who's 
wrong?  What's  it  matter?  If  you  loved  me  I'd  be 
right  whatever  I  did.  Go  on!  Look  at  me!  You 
don't  know  me,  don't  you?  I'm  the  woman  you've 
been  living  with  these  last  two  years.  That's  who  I 
am.  If  you're  sick  of  me,  why  don't  you  say  so?  I'm 
no  lady,  thank  God.  I  do  know  when  I'm  not  wanted. 
I'm  not  going  to  stay  with  any  man  on  God's  earth 
when  he  doesn't  want  me.  I've  nearly  left  you  time 
and  time  again,  when  you've  looked  at  me  like  that." 

He  brushed  his  hand  across  his  eyes.  He  was  feel- 
ing sick  and  dazed.  She  looked  so  ugly. 

She  went  on : 

"I've  put  up  with  things  because  of  you,  I  have. 
You  don't  know  what  people  say,  or  care.  You  won't 
never  know  what  they  say,  you're  that  blooming  inno- 
cent, thinking  everybody  means  well.  I've  put  up  with 
things,  and  been  glad  of  'em,  and  I've  put  up  with 
things  from  you  that  I  couldn't  have  believed  any 
woman  would  ever  have  to  put  up  with " 

He  said  quietly: 

"Have  you  done  ?" 

She  gasped  at  him,  tried  to  stop,  but  because  she 
had  begun  to  enjoy  her  fury,  she  forced  the  note  and 
screamed  at  him: 

279 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"You  want  a  virgin  saint  to  live  with  you,  not  a 
woman." 

Now  she  stopped,  aghast  at  herself,  horrified  by  the 
pain  and  disgust  she  had  brought  into  his  eyes.  He 
could  hardly  speak,  and  jerked  out : 

"I  didn't  know.  ...  I  didn't  know  I'd  done  all  that 
to  you,  Ann.  I'm  so  terribly  sorry.  I  seem  to  make 
a  mess  of  things  always." 

She  had  turned  her  back  on  him,  and  he  knew  that 
she  was  weeping.  He  had  no  desire  to  console  her. 
He  wished  only  to  get  away.  Neither  could  break  the 
heavy  silence  that  followed  the  storm.  He  left  her, 
though  he  could  hardly  move,  so  acute  was  his  physical 
exhaustion.  Groping  his  way  along  the  wall  of  the 
mews,  he  counted  the  doors  until  he  came  to  Kilner's. 
The  rooms  were  empty.  He  flung  himself  on  the  bed 
and  lay  chilled  and  racked,  thinking  only  of  Ann  weep- 
ing, unmoved,  detached,  feeling  neither  sorrow  nor 
hate.  She  had  robbed  him  of  all  capacity  of  emotion, 
all  power  of  thought.  The  storm  had  been  so  un- 
locked for.  Rita  was  so  remote  from  them.  Why 
should  Rita  and  anything  she  said  or  did  have  let  loose 
upon  them  so  violent  a  convulsion? 

Ann  weeping,  Ann  silent,  so  appallingly  silent.  Her 
silence  weighed  on  him  more  than  her  words.  Desire 
grew  in  him  slowly  and  painfully,  a  desire  to  under- 
stand. He  remembered  exactly  what  he  had  said  to 
her,  and  the  words  seemed  meaningless.  Her  silence 
had  killed  them.  They  were  genuine  as  he  spoke  them. 
Speaking  them,  he  had  surmounted  his  disgust  and 
horror  at  her  rage.  Yet  there  was  an  even  more  burn- 

280 


VISION 

ing  fury  in  her  silence.  She  was  weeping;  Ann,  the 
gay  little  comrade,  was  weeping,  and  her  tears  had 
moved  him  not  at  all. 

He  began  to  think  again,  and  to  think  with  a  new 
power.  His  body  was  cold  and  aching.  His  mind 
seemed  to  leave  it.  His  mind  played  about  Ann,  the 
figure  of  Ann,  weeping  in  silence.  It  played  malicious- 
ly about  her,  stripped  her,  let  down  her  hair,  revealed 
her  nakedly  as  woman,  short-legged,  wide-hipped, 
small-breasted,  not  so  unlike  a  boy  save  for  the  excres- 
cences and  distortions  created  by  her  physical  func- 
tions. That  was  too  horrible.  With  an  effort  of  will 
he  brushed  it  aside,  wrenched  away  from  its  fascina- 
tion. Her  individuality  was  restored  to  her  and  a  little 
warmth  crept  into  his  vision  of  her.  He  was  not 
sensible  of  her  charm,  and  he  was  free  of  all  lover's 
memory  of  her  attraction.  His  mind  went  probing 
into  hers,  saw  how  it  delighted  in  impressions,  but 
could  make  no  store  of  them ;  how  her  delight  had  been 
increased  by  love  and  how  she  had  used  her  love  to 
aggravate  her  sensibility  to  the  point  of  intoxication ; 
how  the  fierce  hunger  for  intoxication  had  desired  to 
feed  on  him,  and  how  her  love  for  him  had  made  her 
desire  to  bring  him  to  the  same  condition.  He  saw 
her  innocence ;  how  free  she  was  of  deliberate  purpose 
and  set  greed ;  how  animal  and  yet  how  little  sensual ; 
and  how  she  was  snared  in  her  own  ignorance  of  love 
and  its  ways.  Trapped  she  was  and  baffled.  She 
could  have  been  so  happy  with  a  mate  as  ignorant  as 
herself,  as  willing  to  be  snared.  They  could  so  easily 
have  perished  together,  and  sunk  into  resignation,  she 

281 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

and  such  a  mate.  And  inexorable  nature  had  made 
her  fruitful,  to  bring  forth  in  her  rage,  when  she  would 
be  spent  with  tearing  at  the  meshes  that  had  caught 
her.  She  would  go  on  tearing,  tearing,  and  he  could 
spare  her  nothing.  His  strength  could  not  sustain  her. 
She  desired  only  his  weakness,  to  have  him  with  her, 
caught  and  struggling;  to  have  him  by  her  side,  spent 
and  broken,  to  take  comfort  in  the  child. 

He  seemed  to  himself  to  be  so  near  this  fate,  so 
nearly  caught,  that  he  cried  out : 

"I  will  not!    I  will  not!" 

For  a  moment  the  words  startled  him  and  shook 
him  out  of  his  stupor.  .Then  his  agony  came  back 
with  a  redoubled  fury,  and  in  the  desperate  hope  of 
fighting  it  back  he  let  words  come  tumbling  out,  hurl- 
ing them  from  him : 

"I  will  not  be  used  for  a  creation  in  which  I  know 
no  joy.  I  will  not  cloak  brute  creation  with  a  seeming 
joy  distilled  by  mind  and  time  and  custom.  I  will  not 
be  used  up  and  broken  and  cover  indecency  with  false 
decency,  nor  be  comforted  with  the  life  that  has  stolen 
my  own.  My  life  shall  give  life,  and  for  the  giving 
have  only  the"  more  to  give.  That  which  I  have  done 
with  the  spirit  not  awakened  in  me  is  done  and  no 
longer  a  part  of  me.  That  which  the  spirit  does  in  me 
lives  on  forever  and  ever." 

Kilner  found  him  lying  in  the  darkness,  staring  with 
vacant  eyes.  He  was  terrified.  Rene  looked  so  death- 
ly. He  sat  by  his  side  and  chafed  his  hands,  and  ca- 
ressed him  tenderly,  soothed  him,  spoke  to  him  in  little 

282 


VISION 

staccato  phrases,  and  went  on  with  them  until  he 
seemed  to  listen : 

"The  lamps  aren't  lit  to-night.  It's  very  dark.  Do 
you  hear?  Stars  shining.  Wonderful  stars.  Better 
than  lamps.  I  say,  stars  are  better  than  lamps." 

At  length  Rene  said : 

"Yes.  Stars  are  much  better  than  lamps.  Lamps 
are  only  to  prevent  people  committing  a  nuisance. 
Stars  don't  give  a  damn  if  they  do." 

"I  quite  agree,"  said  Kilner.     "Drink  this  brandy." 

When  he  had  drunk,  Rene  said : 

"Women  ought  to  be  like  stars." 

"Rubbish!"  grunted  Kilner.  "Women  ought  to  be 
like  women." 

"I've  been  trying  to  understand  things." 

"Awful  mistake.  A  fellow  like  you  can't  understand 
things.  He  can  only  live  them.  That's  why  you  have 
such  a  rotten  time.  No  power  of  expression.  If  only 
you  could  write  or  draw,  or  play  some  instrument — 
though  I  hate  music.  But  if  you  could,  you  wouldn't 
be  you." 

"You're  a  clever  fellow,  Kilner.  I  wish  you'd  tell 
me  what's  the  matter  with  me." 

"Too  much  vitality  for  a  society  which  dislikes  it,  as 
it  always  will  as  long  as  it  prefers  the  shadow  to  the 
substance,  bad  art  to  good,  and  imitations  of  things  to 
the  things  themselves." 

Rene  looked  disappointed.     Kilner  patted  his  hand. 

"Too  intellectual!  Personal,  then.  What's  wrong 
with  you,  my  friend,  is  that  you  are  out  for  the  grand 
passion.  It  doesn't  happen  more  than  about  once  in 

283 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

two  hundred  years.  Why  ?  I  don't  know.  It  depends 
on  two  people,  you  see,  and  I  suppose  two  first-rate 
people  don't  often  meet.  The  rest  of  us  lie  about  our 
love  affairs  to  make  them  tolerable.  I  lied  that  night 
when  I  first  met  you.  I  wanted  to  make  an  impres- 
sion. The  only  reason  for  lying  I  ever  knew.  I  told 
you  my  one  decent  love  affair  lasted  for  five  weeks.  It 
didn't.  It  lasted  for  exactly  five  seconds,  the  time  of 
the  kiss  under  the  almond-tree  in  which  it  was  born 
and  died.  Nothing  more  was  possible,  she  being  she 
and  I  being  I.  It  was  a  decent  business  because  we 
didn't  try  to  pretend  it  was  anything  else.  So  far  as 
it  went,  it  was  so  true  as  to  make  falseness  impossible. 
We  shall  both  live  on  that  for  the  rest  of  our  lives. 
Just  enough  to  make  marriage  impossible  for  us.  We 
shall  both  marry  someone  else  for  company,  and  as  a 
defense  against  a  growing  tendency  to  promiscuity. 
You  don't  seem  to  have  that  tendency.  Life's  too 
serious  for  you.  You  are  incapable  of  a  love  affair 
without  an  attempt  to  make  it  a  spiritual  thing.  Where 
we  get  excited,  you  get  exalted,  which  is  infernally 
bad  luck  on  the  average  woman.  Feelin'  better?" 
"Yes,"  said  Rene,  "but  you  do  talk  a  lot  of  drivel." 
"Hurray!"  cried  Kilner.  "He's  beginning  to  find 
himself.  I  wonder  if  you'll  ever  see  how  funny  you 
are?" 

"I  wonder?"  said  Rene,  and  he  turned  over,  and  in 
one  moment  was  fast  asleep. 


XII 
SETTLEMENT 

Our  conscious  actions  are  as  a  drop  in  the  sea  as  com- 
pared with  our  unconscious  ones. 

A  NN  came  round  in  the  morning,  very  petulant  and 
•*  *•  angry  because  she  had  lost  half-a-sovereign. 
This  had  so  upset  her  that,  once  she  was  satisfied  that 
Rene  was  not  so  ill  as  he  looked,  she  had  no  other  in- 
terest, and  could  only  give  vent  to  her  annoyance  in 
little  splutters  of  irritation.  She  sat  by  Rene  and 
talked  about  it  until  he  had  to  ask  her  to  go  away. 

"All  right,"  she  said,  "I  know  when  I'm  not  wanted. 
But  I  do  hate  doing  a  thing  like  that.  I  can't  think 
how  I  did  it." 

"There  was  once,"  said  Kilner,  seeing  how  she  was 
fretting  his  friend,  "a  crooked  woman  who  lived  in  a 
crooked  house,  and  she  lost  a  crooked  sixpence." 

"I  know  that  story.  Only  it  wasn't  a  crooked  wom- 
an. It  was  Mrs.  Vinegar,  and  she  lived  in  a  bottle, 
and  she  lost  a  sixpence  and  broke  the  bottle  sweeping 
for  it.  Oh,  Renny,  he  thinks  I'm  like  Mrs.  Vinegar! 
I  am  awful,  I  know." 

Rene  smiled  at  Kilner.    Ann  said : 

285 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"If  there's  any  overtime  to-day,  I'll  take  it.  Will 
you — be  back  to-night?" 

"I  think  I'll  stay  here  if  you  don't  mind." 

"Will  you —  You'll  let  me  come  and  see  you  ?"  She 
seemed  to  appeal  to  Kilner.  He  nodded.  His  con- 
sent comforted  her,  and  she  rose  to  go.  Rene  took  her 
hand  and  said: 

"Ann,  dear,  I  want  you  to  believe  that  whatever 
happens  I  am  always  your  friend." 

She  answered : 

"I  saw  Rita  this  morning.     She's  all  right." 

"That's  good." 

"I  was  awful,  wasn't  I  ?  Something  seemed  to  come 
over  me.  I  didn't  want  to  be  a  beast,  really  I  didn't. 
Only  I  do  hate  it  when  you  can  say  what  you  mean  and 
I  can't.  I  do  want  to  make  it  up,  Renny.  Only  it 
doesn't  seem  like  ordinary  rows,  does  it  ?" 

"Come  and  see  me  to-night,  Ann.  You  might  tell 
old  Martin  I  can't  take  the  car  out  to-day." 

"You're  not  ill,  are  you?" 

"No.    Only  what  you'd  call  queer." 

Kilner  followed  her  out. 

"What's  the  matter  with  him?"  she  asked. 

"You." 

"Oh !"    She  was  dismayed. 

"I  don't  mean  it  in  any  insulting  sense.  His  affec- 
tions and  yours  don't  work  in  the  same  way." 

"I  don't  understand." 

"That's  it." 

"I  do  understand  more  than  you  think,  Mr.  Kilner. 
Jf  a  feller  wants  to  leave  a  girl,  I  say  she's  a  fool  to  try 

286 


SETTLEMENT 

and  keep  him.  I  don't  believe  Renny's  that  sort.  I 
don't  believe  he'd  see  a  girl  left." 

"He's  done  it  once." 

"Oh!  Her!  That's  different.  She  wasn't  fond  of 
him  like  I  am." 

"You  don't  know." 

"Don't  I  ?  Besides,  she  was  one  of  your  ladies.  I'm 
sorry  for  them,  always  keeping  one  eye  lifting  on  what 
other  ladies  are  going  to  think." 

"Suppose  he  did  leave  you." 

"That's  not  your  business,  Mr.  Kilner.  If  he  did, 
I'd  know  you'd  been  making  him  upset  with  your 
talk." 

"It  isn't  all  talk." 

"What  is  it,  then?" 

"Something  just  as  deep  as  what  you  call  love ;  prob- 
ably deeper." 

They  had  walked  down  the  street  leading  to  the 
mews,  and  now  came  to  the  corner.  Ann  stopped  and 
stood  hesitating.  Her  hand  went  up,  and  she  pulled  at 
her  lower  lip  and  shifted  her  feet  uneasily. 

"I  known  girls  be  left,"  she  muttered,  "girls  like  me. 
They  pulled  through  somehow.  But  I  don't  think 
they  was  fond  of  the  men  like  I  am  of  him.  And  you 
say  he's  fond  of  me.  I  know  there  isn't  anybody 
else." 

"Is  that  all  you  care  about?" 

"He's  never  looked  at  anybody  else.  I'd  feel  better 
if  he  did.  What  call  has  he  to  go  and  make  trouble  if 
there  isn't  anybody  else?  Lots  of  girls  would  have 
chucked  work  when  they'd  found  a  man  like  that  to 

287 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

live  on.  They  get  sick  of  being  on  their  own.  I've 
been  on  my  own  since  I  was  sixteen,  and  I  couldn't 
give  it  up  for  anybody." 

"And  yet  you  expect  him  to  give  it  up?" 

"No,  I  don't.  I  expect  him  to  stand  by  me,  that's 
all.  I  have  my  feelings  too.  He's  not  the  only  person 
in  the  world  with  feelings.  I'm  very  fond  of  him,  Mr. 
Kilner,  but  sometimes  I  think  he's  a  bit  soft,  and  I  do 
hate  a  softy.  Ooh!  Til  be  late." 

She  walked  swiftly  away.  Very  young  she  looked. 
She  moved  not  gracefully,  but  with  a  birdlike  energy 
that  was  pleasing.  Kilner,  surveying  her  figure,  ap- 
proved of  it,  until  he  came  to  her  shoulders.  They 
were  slightly  stooping  and  rounded,  and  she  swung 
them  awkwardly  as  she  walked. 

"Ugly  and  weak,"  said  Kilner  to  himself.  "Stoop- 
ing over  an  infernal  machine.  Taken  something  out 
of  her.  Not  her  spirit.  Given  her  a  cramped  habit  of 
body.  Nonsense.  No  good  trying  to  account  for  it. 
He  is  simply  not  in  love  with  her,  never  has  been,  nor 
she  with  him." 

He  went  up  to  his  room  and  found  it  empty.  No 
Rene.  No  sign  of  him  at  Ann's.  He  had  not  been 
seen  at  the  yard.  His  car  was  out  with  a  temporary 
driver.  A  child  in  the  mews  had  seen  him  in  the  main 
road.  He  had  gone  into  a  tobacconist's  and  then 
climbed  on  a  bus.  The  tobacconist  remembered  his 
coming  in  to  get  change  for  a  sovereign.  He  looked 
rather  strange  and  excited.  "It's  a  fine  day,"  said  the 
tobacconist.  "Fine,  be  blowed,"  replied  Rene.  "It's 

288 


SETTLEMENT 

as  empty  as  hell."  "I  wouldn't  say  that,"  said  the  to- 
bacconist, "with  the  sun  shining."  "But  I  do  say  it," 
insisted  Rene.  "You  couldn't  call  that  shining."  And 
then  another  customer  came  in. 

Kilner  had  some  knowledge  of  his  friend's  ways  and 
haunts,  but  he  sought  in  vain. 

He  met  Ann  in  the  evening  with  his  news.  She 
looked  scared  and  protested : 

"He's  gone  to  his  home.  He  must  have  gone  to  his 
home.  You  could  tell  he  was  always  fond  of  his 
mother." 

"What  makes  you  think  that?" 

"He  wouldn't  go  anywhere  else." 

"Did  he  talk  about  his  home  ?" 

"Hardly  a  word.  But  he  told  me  he'd  met  his  father. 
He's  gone  to  his  home.  He'll  be  back." 

"I  don't  feel  so  sure  about  that." 

"Well,  I  know  he'd  never  go  back  to  the  old  life, 
books  and  all  that.  He  said  he  never  would.  He  said 
he'd  learned  more  about  econ —  What  d'you  call 
it?" 

"Economics." 

"That's  it.  He  said  he'd  learned  more  through  be- 
ing with  me  than  in  four  years'  work  at  books  and 
lectures." 

"I  should  call  that  an  exaggerated  statement." 

"He'll  come  back.    I  know  he  wouldn't  see  me  left." 

They  met  Martin  rolling  to  his  home.  When  they 
told  him,  he  screwed  a  chuckle  out  of  himself  and 
squeezed  his  eyes  up  tight. 

289 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"Onsettled,"  he  said,  "onsettled.  I  seen  it  a-coming 
on.  Thinks  I  to  myself,  I  thinks,  when  I  sees  him 
coming  in  in  the  morning:  'Brewing  up  for  trouble, 
you  are,  young  man ;  but  whether  it'll  be  Glory  to  God 
or  Down  with  them  as  pays  wages,  or  what,  I  don't 
know.'  I  was  going  to  say  he'd  better  have  a  holiday, 
and  now  he's  snoofed  it." 

"He'll  come  back,"  said  Ann. 

"Don't  you  go  counting  on  that,  my  pretty.  He 
ain't  our  class,  and  never  could  be.  You've  only  to  see 
him  drink  to  know  that.  If  he  was  our  class  he'd  be 
worse'n  the  rest  of  us.  Don't  you  go  counting  on 
that." 

"He'll  come  back.    He  ain't  a  sneak." 

"When  it  comes  to  women,"  said  Martin,  "any 
man's  neither  more  nor  less  than  what  he  can  be.  But 
if  you  find  it  lonely  waiting  you  can  come  and  sit  with 
me.  I  ain't  a-going  to  see  you  let  down,  my  pretty,  not 
for  want  of  money  or  a  helping  hand.  If  your  heart's 
set  on  him,  I  can't  do  nothing  there;  but,  Lor'  bless 
you,  hearts  ain't  everything." 

"Good  for  you,  Mr.  Martin,"  said  Kilner. 

"Oh,  I  know  a  thing  or  two."  The  fat  man  winked. 
"You  don't  have  to  do  with  'orses  for  nothing.  I  had 
a  'orse  once  took  a  uncommon  fancy  to  a  goat  there 
was  in  the  mews.  Had  to  see  it  every  day.  The  goat 
was  sold,  and  that  there  'orse  pined  away.  I  kept  on 
a-telling  of  him  that  no  goat  in  the  world  was  worth 
losing  a  feed  of  oats  for,  and  at  last  he  got  so  precious 
hungry  he  believed  it,  and  I  never  did  see  a  'orse  so 
glad  to  eat.  Fancies  come  and  go,  but  your  belly  lets 

290 


SETTLEMENT 

you  know  it's  there  till  you  die.     Will  you  come  in, 
too,  Mr.  Kilner?" 

"No,  thanks.  I  must  get  to  bed  early.  Work  in  the 
morning." 

When  Kilner  had  gone,  old  Martin  said  to  Ann  with 
an  affectionate  touch  on  her  arm : 

"That  young  man  has  a  'ead  screwed  on  his  shoul- 
ders." 

"He's  all  head,"  said  Ann,  "and  I  hate  him." 

"Lor' !  There's  talking.  How  women  do  like  to 
make  a  man  wriggle.  I  never  was  much  in  the  wrig- 
gling line  myself,  not  being  the  build  for  it.  But  a 
'ead's  worth  having,  too.  I  never  had  much  'ead  my- 
self. Too  affectionate  myself.  What  a  pretty  little 
thing  you  was,  to  be  sure.  Feeling  it  bad,  my  pretty  ?" 

"Hellish  bad,"  replied  Ann. 

"There,  there." 

"I  never  thought  I'd  feel  anything  so  bad.  I  want 
to  hate  him,  but  I  can't.  I  do  hate  that  Kilner.  I'd 
like  to  see  him  dead." 

"There,  there.  'Orses  has  wunnerful  strong  dis- 
likes, too." 

Ann  said : 

"It's  enough  to  make  a  woman  scream,  the  way  men 
talk." 

Old  Martin's  huge  face  expanded  in  astonishment. 
He  reached  out  his  hand  for  a  pipe,  filled  it,  conveyed 
it  to  his  mouth,  and  sank  into  a  brooding  silence.  He 
broke  it  at  length  to  say : 

"Women  has  a  great  scorn  o'  men,  and  I  don't  know 
but  what  they  deserve  it." 

291 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"If  there's  one  thing  I  hate,"  said  Ann,  "it's  being 
dished.  I  suppose  I  always  knew  it  couldn't  last.  It 
was  too  wonderful.  You  don't  know  how  kind  he  was 
in  his  ways,  never  wanting  anything  you  didn't  want 
yourself.  And  that  was  awful,  too,  because  it  made 
you  afraid  to  want  anything.  It  seemed  to  shame  you. 
He  was  always  shaming  me,  and  I  did  feel  awful  some- 
times. But  it  was  lovely  when  we  went  for  rides  on 
tops  of  buses." 

This  appreciation  of  Rene's  qualities  as  a  housemate 
seemed  to  bore  old  Martin,  for  he  took  up  a  newspaper 
and  began  making  notes  and  calculations  from  the  bet- 
ting columns. 

"Hullo!"  he  said.  "This  must  be  some  connection 
of  his.  'Miss  Janet  Fourmy  of  Elgin,  N.B.'  'Miss 
Fourmy,'  it  says,  'was  a  distinguished  German  and 
Italian  scholar,  a  Goethe  translator,  a  contributor  to 
the  Scottish  Encyclo — '  what  you  may  call  it.  'In  her 
youth  she  was  familiar  with  the  famous  Edinburgh 
circle  which  gathered  round  Maga  and  did  much  valu- 
able philological  work,  and  was  for  a  time  governess 
to  the  late  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  who  never  ceased 
to  express  his  admiration  for  her  intellect  and  gifts. 
She  had  many  friendships  with  the  interesting  figures 
of  her  day,  and  it  is  believed  that  she  has  left  some 
record  of  them." 

"He  told  me  about  her,"  said  Ann.  "He  used  to  go 
and  stay  with  her,  and  she  used  to  read  an  Italian  book 
called  Dante,  with  the  pages  upside  down.  She  was 
very  old,  but  good  to  him,  and  she  thought  Lord  John 
Russell  was  in  love  with  her." 

292 


SETTLEMENT 

"Lord  who?" 

"I  don't  know  who  he  was,  but  that's  the  name. 
Renny  says  it  was  her  weakness.  She  lived  all  alone, 
and  it's  very  dreary  in  the  winter  in  Scotland.  She 
had  met  a  lot  of  lords  in  her  time,  and  she  liked  to 
remember  more  than  she'd  met.  And  she'd  never  mar- 
ried, and  Renny  says  she  thought  it  sounded  well  to 
account  for  it  by  saying  that  Lord  John  Russell  was  in 
love  with  her.  It  wasn't  always  him " 

"Well !  the  things  women  do  think  of.  I  shall  say  I 
remained  a  widower  because  of  Madame  Tussaud." 

"She  was  fond  of  Renny,"  said  Ann,  and  that 
seemed  on  her  lips  the  noblest  possible  epitaph  for  old 
Janet.  She  added: 

"Perhaps  that's  where  he's  gone." 

"I  shouldn't  think  so.  It  costs  a  pile  o'  money  to  go 
to  Elgin,  N.B.  It's  a  good  deal  north  o'  Bedford, 
which  is  the  farthest  I  ever  went  with  the  'orses.  That 
was  in  eighteen-eighty-four." 

He  settled  down  for  a  story.  Fortunately  for  Ann, 
he  was  allowed  to  get  no  further  than  clearing  his 
throat,  when  he  was  cut  short  by  the  entry  of  Casey. 

"Evening,  miss,"  said  he.  "I  seen  your  young  man 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Holland  Park,  standing  on  a 
street  corner.  I  nodded  to  him,  but  he  looked  clean 
through  me.  Very  queer,  I  thought.  We've  been 
good  pals.  When  I  came  back  an  hour  later  he  was 
still  there.  I  was  empty  that  time.  So  I  stopped. 
'Keeping  the  pavement  warm,'.  I  said,  cheerful  like. 
'Trying  to  warm  myself,'  said  he.  'Draughty  weather 
to  be  doing  that  in  the  streets,'  I  said.  'You  go  home, 

293 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

Casey,'  he  said.  'Oh,  well,'  I  thought,  'we're  all  fools, 
and  every  fool  to  his  own  folly.'  So  I  left  him.  I 
came  home  that  way  just  now  and  he'd  gone." 

"We  been  talking  about  him  all  evening,"  said  Mar- 
tin, "me  and  Annie  here." 

"He's  one  of  the  best  hands  at  an  engine  that  ever 
I  saw.  And  that  brings  me  to  what  I  want  to  talk  to 
you  about,  guvnor.  I  been  to  see  the  doctor  again, 
and  he  says  London's  doing  me  a  bit  of  no  good,  and 
if  I  go  on  with  it,  it'll  do  me  in.  Now  I've  got  an 
idea.  Leastways  it  isn't  all  my  idea  but  mostly  hisn, 
young  Fourmy's." 

"If  you  knew  about  'orses,  there's  a  good  livery  at 
Barnet." 

Casey  persisted: 

"My  idea  is  this :  There's  just  a  few  want  motors 
in  London.  Something's  happening  in  the  place.  Well, 
one  night  in  the  cab-rank  young  Fourmy,  Young  Ear- 
nest, as  we  call  him,  took  out  the  map  of  fifty  miles 
round,  and  he  pointed  out  how  the  railways  go  out  of 
London  like  spokes  of  a  wheel.  Between  the  spokes, 
he  says,  is  where  London  is  going  to  live  if  it  is  made 
possible,  and  motors  ought  to  make  it  possible.  He 
says  if  you  choose  your  place  properly,  so  as  to  link 
up  the  main  roads  and  two  railways,  you'd  be  bound 
to  make  a  living.  There's  enough  houses  already. 
Soon  there'll  be  factories  and  works  out  there. 
Then  there'll  be  more  houses.  I  didn't  believe  it  at 
first.  I  said:  'But  if  all  the  people  live  out  there, 
what's  to  become  of  dear  old  London?'  'London,'  he 
says,  'will  be  a  clearing-house  and  capital,  a  real  cen- 

294 


SETTLEMENT 

ter.'  I  didn't  understand  altogether  what  he  was  talk- 
ing about,  but  I've  been  out  to  see  for  myself,  and  what 
he  says  is  happening.  All  the  little  country  towns  have 
cinemas  and  new  shops,  and  in  the  suburbs  there  are 
whole  streets  of  houses  empty.  I'm  no  good  for  the 
West  End  traffic,  and  I  want  to  try  my  luck  at  the 
other,  if  I  can  get  hold  of  any  capital." 

"Ah !  Capital !"  said  Martin.  "That  wants  a  bit  of 
getting,  capital  does." 

Clearly  he  had  not  understood  a  word  of  what  Casey 
was  talking  about.  He  had  his  own  idea  of  London, 
and  was  not  going  to  change  it  or  admit  the  possibility 
of  change.  From  one  year's  end  to  the  other  he  never 
left  the  mews.  His  yard  might  actually  be  rilled  with 
motor-cars,  but  for  him  it  was  really  a  sanctuary  of 
the  'orses.  Their  smell  still  clung  about  it.  The  one 
horse  he  had  left  had  little  else  to  do  but  provide  the 
smell. 

However,  he  liked  Casey,  and  was  distressed  to  find 
him  taking  to  ideas : 

"Don't  you  go  worrying  your  head  about  what  is 
and  is  not,  Casey.  Heads  wasn't  made  for  that.  Heads 
was  made  to  have  eyes  in,  and  mouths,  the  same  as 
'orses.  All  you  got  to  do,  all  any  man's  got  to  do,  is 
to  earn  his  keep  and  pay  his  shot,  same  as  a  'orse. 
When  he's  done  that,  'e's  got  to  behave  nice  to  them  as 
is  in  stable  with  him.  And  every  now  and  then  he 
gets  his  little  canter  and  may  be  turned  out  to 
grass." 

"I'm  no  Nebuchadnezzar,"  retorted  Casey,  "and  I 
want  to  be  on  my  own." 

295 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"No  man  can  be  on  his  own  if  he  ain't  got  no  cap- 
ital." 

"That's  what  I've  been  saying." 

"Ah!"  said  Martin  mysteriously,  to  baffle  Casey's 
obstinacy.  "Ah!  that  wants  getting,  that  does.  If  it 
was  'orses  now " 

Casey  saw  that  it  was  hopeless.  Nothing  would 
budge  the  fat  man  from  his  yard.  Cars !  They  were 
a  necessary  evil,  not  to  be  encouraged  beyond  the  limit 
of  necessity. 

Ann  wanted  to  know  more  about  Rene,  but  Casey 
could  tell  her  nothing.  He  repeated  his  eulogy  of 
young  Fourmy's  skill  as  a  driver,  and  added : 

"We've  got  has-been  gentlemen  on  the  ranks,  scores 
of  them.  But  they're  not  like  him.  It's  a  treat  to  hear 
him  talk,  it  is.  They  wanted  him,  a  lot  of  them  did,  to 
pitch  into  the  union,  but  he  doesn't  seem  to  think  much 
of  trade-unions.  He  says  they  can't  do  anything  yet, 
in  the  way  of  fighting  I  mean,  because  they  want  to 
make  us  all  middle-classes,  and  that  ain't  good  enough. 
If  I  could  get  him  to  go  along  with  me !" 

Ann  said: 

"He  hasn't  been  home  all  day.  Didn't  he  say  any- 
thing to  you  ?" 

"He  did  say  one  day :  'I'm  getting  sick  of  this,  cart- 
ing men  and  women  like  cattle.'  It  seems  to  have  got 
on  his  nerves  a  bit.  Too  good  for  it,  I  suppose." 

"It  would  be  a  good  thing,"  said  she,  "if  we  went 
into  the  country,  though  I  don't  know  what  I'd  do.  I 
do  love  London  and  all  the  lights  and  that,  and  the 
shops." 

296 


SETTLEMENT 

Said  Casey: 

"You  should  see  the  nights  in  Africa.  Some  parts 
you  can  walk  a  hundred  miles  and  never  see  a  light. 
Nothing  but  stars,  and  fewer  of  them  than  we  have 
here.  Flat  and  empty  as  the  sea  some  of  the  country, 
going  on  forever  and  ever  in  the  darkness." 

Ann  shivered: 

"Ugh !"  she  said.  "It  makes  me  think  of  Renny.  I 
don't  know  why.  He'd  like  it,  I  think." 

"Yes.     I  think  he  likes  big  things." 

It  was  late.  Near  twelve  o'clock.  The  lamps  in 
the  mews  flickered  as  Ann  returned  to  her  rooms.  The 
post  had  brought  a  note  from  Rene,  posted  in  the 
north  of  London.  He  said :  "Please  tell  old  Martin  I 
shall  be  away  three  days.  I  will  come  back  then.  I 
think  I  have  it  all  settled  in  my  mind.  I  want  to  get  it 
clear  for  you,  too.  You  have  been  so  good  to  me,  my 
dear,  and  I  owe  you  so  much. — R." 

There  was  also  a  letter  for  him.  She  struggled 
against  the  desire  to  open  it,  and  conquered  it  for  that 
night.  The  next  morning,  however,  the  temptation 
was  too  strong  for  her,  and  she  steamed  it  open.  It 
was  from  a  Writer  to  the  Signet  in  Edinburgh  to  say 
that  the  late  Miss  Janet  Fourmy  had  left  Rene  the 
residue  of  her  estate,  which,  after  certain  small  leg- 
acies had  been  paid,  would  amount  to  nearly  four 
thousand  pounds.  The  house  in  Scotland  would  also 
be  his,  and  all  the  deceased  lady's  personal  effects. 

Ann  went  to  her  work  that  day  shivering  with  ex- 
citement. Rene's  enormous  wealth  frightened  her. 
She  could  put  up  a  fight  against  his  intelligence,  his 

297 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

brooding,  his  silence;  but  against  this  she  felt  power- 
less, and  knew  within  her  heart  that  her  battle  was 
already  lost. 

She  was  a  forewoman  now,  and  she  gave  the  girls 
under  her  the  worst  day  they  ever  remembered. 


BOOK  THREE 
CATHLEEN    BENTLEY 


So  between  them  love  did  shine 
That  the  truth  saw  his  right 
Flaming  in  the  phoenix'    sight, 

Either  was  the   other's  mine. 

Property  was  thus  appalled 
That  the  self  was  not  the  same; 
Single    nature's    double    name 

Neither  two  nor  one  was  called. 


MEETING 

He  trieth  the  sea  after  many  shipwrecks;  and  beats  still 
on  that  door  which  he  never  saw  opened. 

WHEN  Ann  and  Kilner  left  Rene,  he  was  filled 
with  anger  against  them,  first  of  all,  fleetingly, 
with  the  petulance  of  a  sick  man  at  being  left  alone 
without  his  having  expressed  a  wish  for  it,  and  then  at 
their  treating  him  as  a  sick  man  when  he  was  nothing 
of  the  kind,  but  only  passing  through  a  crisis  in  which 
not  even  sympathy  could  help  him  much.  Kilner  was 
so  cocksure  just  because  he  had  a  peculiar  delight  in 
putting  paint  on  canvas;  and  Ann — poor  dear  little 
Ann! — she  loved  to  have  things  and  people  at  her 
mercy  and  to  keep  them  there.  And  she  could  make  no 
attempt  to  understand  them,  because  if  she  did  so,  that 
would  be  to  believe  in  them  and  let  them  be  free  to 
work  out  their  own  destiny.  He  knew  how  little  free- 
dom she  would  even  grant  himself,  and  his  mind, 
spurred  by  revolt  into  high  activity,  went  straight  to 
its  mark,  the  place  where  freedom  most  clearly  prom- 
ised— absurdly,  the  door  through  which  he  had  seen 
Rachel  Bentley  pass.  That  led  to  his  clearest  and 
most  beautiful  memory,  the  days  in  Scotland,  the 

301 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

happy  boyhood  when  delight  had  grown  from  year  to 
year,  to  flower  at  last  in  the  coming  of  Cathleen.  Very 
vivid  was  his  recollection  of  their  first  meeting  in  his 
aunt's  house :  himself  very  coltish  and  shy,  she  charm- 
ingly self-conscious  and  alert.  It  was  the  first  year  the 
Bentleys  had  taken  the  big  house,  and  she  had  come 
round  by  the  road.  His  aunt  had  asked  him  to  show 
Cathleen  the  short  cut  through  the  woods.  She  chat- 
tered until  his  shyness  overcame  him,  and  then  they 
walked  in  a  miserable  silence.  He  comforted  himself 
by  regarding  her  as  a  little  girl,  which  to  his  young 
prudishness  made  his  involuntary  adoration  of  her 
beauty  legitimate.  He  could  never  take  his  eyes  off 
her,  and  she  began  to  amuse  herself  with  him  and  try 
her  coquetries  upon  his  oversensitiveness.  He  suffered 
terribly.  She  was  caught  in  her  own  wiles,  and  she 
too  suffered.  It  was  a  relief  to  both  when,  the  first 
year,  they  parted. 

The  next  year  she  was  not  so  lovely,  and  had  lost  or 
disguised  her  wildness.  It  was  not  long  before  he  dis- 
covered that  he  could  rouse  it  in  her.  Then  began 
their  meetings  in  the  woods. 

At  the  thought  of  her  now  his  affection  for  Ann,  his 
warm  regard  for  Kilner  faded  away.  They  were 
meaningless  without  her.  He  knew  not  where  she 
was.  His  only  clue  was  Rachel.  Cathleen,  too,  might' 
go  to  that  house.  He  would  wait  until  she  came.  If 
the  worst  came  to  the  worst,  he  would  ask  Rachel.  He 
must  satisfy  himself  that  he  was  not  covering  that 
sweet  past  writh  illusions.  The  meeting  with  Rachel 
had  brought  it  all  flooding  back  to  bring  him  to  acute 

302 


MEETING 

discontent  with  the  present.  It  was  one  thing  to  sigh 
sentimentally  over  happy  days.  To  do  that  was  to 
obscure  them.  It  was  quite  another  thing  to  have 
happy  days  demanding  egress  through  his  life,  grow- 
ing through  the  thick-set  years  like  a  tree  through  a 
wall. 

He  stole  away  directly  Kilner  and  Ann  were  out  of 
sight,  found  he  had  only  a  sovereign,  and  turned  into 
the  tobacconist's  round  the  corner  for  change.  It  was 
also  a  news-agent's,  and  he  bought  a  newspaper  and,  as 
he  was  borne  along  by  the  bus,  read  of  his  aunt's  death. 
Strange,  he  thought,  that  all  his  thoughts  should  be 
clustered  round  her  house  just  then.  The  wise  old 
woman,  with  her  dear  foibles:  what  had  her  long  life 
been?  The  end  of  it  was  sweet  and  true  and  full  of 
grace.  Not  only  his  mother  had  been  helped  in  her 
troubles.  That  he  knew.  The  old  lady's  meager  in- 
come became  supple  and  elastic  under  the  touch  of 
generous  charity  that  never  spoiled  its  gifts  with  the 
demand  for  gratitude.  She  once  said  to  Rene :  "Better 
be  ungrateful  than  cramped  with  gratitude."  Read 
Dante  upside  down  she  might  in  her  old  age,  but  she 
could  quote  him  from  her  heart : 

Ed  io  a  lui :  lo  mi  son  un  die,  quando 
Amor  mi  spira,  noto,  ed  a  quel  modo 
che  ditta  dentro,  vo  significando. 

She  had  made  Rene  learn  a  little  Italian  and  get  that  by 
heart.  It  began  now  to  have  a  meaning  for  him,  and 
he  repeated  it  to  himself  as  he  came  near  the  road  in 
which  stood  Rachel's  house. 

303 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

He  took  up  his  stand  at  the  corner  and  waited.  He 
had  been  there  nearly  an  hour  when  a  car  drove  up 
and  a  spruce,  middle-aged  gentleman  got  out,  walked 
up  the  path,  and  admitted  himself  with  a  key.  Ra- 
chel's husband  ?  Far  too  old  for  her. 

Another  hour's  waiting.  A  young  woman  came 
along  the  road.  Rene  thought  for  a  moment  it  was 
she,  and  his  heart  leaped.  She  did  not  see  him.  She 
turned  in  at  the  gate,  knocked  at  the  door,  and  was 
admitted.  No,  he  decided,  that  was  not  Cathleen. 

Then  he  told  himself  he  was  a  fool,  that  only  by 
the  unlikeliest  chance  would  she  be  there  to-day.  He 
walked  away,  but  was  back  again  in  ten  minutes.  In 
another  twenty  the  door  opened  and  the  young  woman 
came  out.  She  stood  for  a  moment  at  the  gate.  It 
could  not  be  Cathleen,  she  was  too  tall  and  slender.  In 
his  eager  hope  and  curiosity  he  moved  toward  her. 
He  was  not  a  yard  away  from  her  when  she  turned 
and  their  eyes  met.  Neither  stirred.  They  were 
stilled  by  the  wonder  of  it.  A  spell  was  on  them,  and 
slowly  in  both  grew  the  dreadful  knowledge  that  a 
word  or  a  gesture  would  break  it.  In  his  heart  Rene 
prayed :  "Oh !  let  it  break  into  happiness,"  and  his  will 
leaped  into  being  and  decided  that  it  must  be  so  and  he 
laughed.  She  said: 

"Oh!    Rene!" 

It  was  no  echo  of  the  old  cry,  but  the  same  filled 
with  a  new  music. 

Their  hands  met  in  the  conventional  salute.  She 
said: 

"I  have  been  thinking  of  you  so  much." 

304 


MEETING 

"Much?"  said  he.  "I  have  been  thinking  of  nothing 
else.  And  I  was  not  sure  that  it  was  you  when  you 
went  in  just  now." 

"I  saw  you,  but  I  didn't  recognize  you.  Rachel  told 
me  she  had  met  you." 

"Did  she  tell  you  where?" 

"I  had  to  dig  it  out  of  her.  She  was  very  hushed 
and  secret.  Rachel  is  funny.  I've  been  looking  at 
taxi-drivers  ever  since.  They  are  a  very  plain  lot  of 
men." 

"Where  do  you  live  now  ?" 

"In  Bloomsbury.  I  am  working  for  my  living,  you 
know." 

"I'm  glad  of  that,  but  I  shouldn't  have  thought  it 
necessary." 

"My  father  died." 

"I  heard  that." 

"He  left  nearly  all  his  money  to  another  woman :  an- 
other family.  I  suppose  he  liked  them  better  than  us. 
I  had  a  row  with  my  mother  over  it.  It  appears  she 
knew  all  about  it  and  never  minded.  Only  when  it 
came  to  her  having  less  money  than  she  thought,  she 
developed  a  horrid  conscience  and  denounced  my 
father  to  us.  I  hadn't  thought  about  such  things,  but 
I  was  fond  of  my  father,  and  it  wasn't  fair  to  vilify 
him  after  his  death.  I  didn't  understand  it  in  the 
very  least,  but  I  stood  up  for  him,  and  of  course  I  said 
a  lot  of  stupid,  cruel  things.  I  went  to  see  the  other 
woman.  She  was  quite  old,  older  than  mother,  rather 
vulgar,  but  jolly  and  warm-hearted  and  kind,  and, 
from  the  way  she  talked,  I  could  see  she  really  did  love 

305 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

my  father  and  was  very  proud  of  him.  You  know,  he 
made  his  own  way.  His  father  was  a  barber  in  Rick- 
ham,  in  Hertfordshire.  She  came  from  there,  too.  I 
told  mother  I  had  seen  her,  and  she  was  furious,  and 
said  I  was  too  young  to  know  anything  about  such 
things.  I  pointed  out  that  she  had  told  me,  and  she 
declared  she  never  imagined  that  I  would  understand. 
Then  she  put  it  all  down  to  my  taste  for  low  company, 
meaning  you.  That  annoyed  me,  and  I  told  her  you 
were  a  very  learned  and  brilliant  person.  She  said 
Thrigsby  wasn't  a  real  university,  and  its  degrees  did 
not  count.  You  weren't  a  gentleman,  and  it  was  ter- 
rible how  all  the  professions  were  being  invaded  by 
little  whipper-snappers  with  a  thin  coating  of  book 
knowledge.  So  I  asked  her  point-blank  why  she  mar- 
ried my  father,  and  she  said  he  was  extremely  success- 
ful. Father  had  left  us  each  two  hundred  pounds.  I 
asked  for  that,  and  said  I  would  earn  my  own  living. 
I  should  have  a  year  in  which  to  look  round.  She  said 
no  one  would  ever  marry  me  if  I  worked.  I  told  her 
that  the  little  I  had  learned  of  her  life  didn't  make  me 
anxious  to  be  married.  She  became  very  solemn  on 
that,  and  told  me  I  couldn't  possibly  remain  unmar- 
ried, because  I  was  too  pretty.  I  said  I  thought  wom- 
en could  look  after  themselves,  and  obviously  other 
arrangements  were  possible,  and  sometimes  more 
profitable.  That  was  an  odious  thing  to  say,  but  we 
had  irritated  each  other  out  of  all  decency,  and  for 
vulgarity  the  other  woman  was  an  angel  to  us.  I 
couldn't  stay  with  my  mother;  I  had  said  too  much. 
She  knew  if  I  stayed  it  would  make  it  hard  for  her  to 

306 


MEETING 

play  the  devoted  widow;  and  also,  if  she  could  be  the 
broken-hearted  parent,  it  would  give  her  a  good  start. 
She  pounced  on  that,  and  let  me  go  with  her  most 
lugubrious  blessing  and  most  ghoulish  doubts.  She 
prophesied  almost  gleefully  that  I  would  go  to  the  bad, 
and  helped  me  along  by  treating  me  as  if  I  had  already 
done  so.  Then  I  plunged  into  the  wicked  world.  It 
was  very  disappointing.  I  had  been  led  to  suppose  that 
no  woman  was  safe  alone.  The  wicked  world  has 
absolutely  disregarded  me.  Occasionally  some  miser- 
able little  man  or  pale-faced  boy  has  sidled  up  to  me 
in  the  street  and  said,  'Excuse  me,  miss' — or  'Haven't 
we  met  before?'  They  don't  alarm  me.  I  say  I  won't 
excuse  them  or  that  I  haven't  met  them,  and  they  look 
very  comically  cast  down,  and  say  'Beg  pardon'  and 
shuffle  off.  Sometimes  I  am  so  sorry  for  them  that  I 
feel  inclined  to  run  after  them  and  tell  them  to  cheer 
up,  because  it's  quite  easy  to  find  affection  if  you  only 
set  about  it  the  right  way.  They  think  it's  adventure 
they  want,  but  it  isn't.  It's  only  affection,  some  sort 
of  human  contact.  I  understood  that,  because  I  too 
was  lonely.  But  those  poor  little  men  were  so  dull.  I 
can't  bear  being  dull,  and  I  hate  to  see  it  in  others;  I 
hate  to  see  them  settling  down  to  it.  That's  what 
mother  wanted  me  to  do.  I  might  have  done  it,  too, 
if  father  hadn't  died.  You  know  it  seems  quite  pleas- 
ant to  flirt  and  spend  money,  and  find  a  husband  and 
go  on  flirting  and  spending  money.  I'd  never  seen 
anyone  die  before,  and  it  did  make  me  feel  ashamed. 
All  of  us  were  changed  by  it  for  a  little.  We  became 
very  shy  of  each  other,  and  wanted  to  be  nice,  and 

3°7 


[YOUNG  EARNEST 

began  to  talk  about  the  things  we  really  thought  and 
felt  inside  ourselves.  Then  all  that  slipped  away,  and 
we  were  just  the  same  as  before  until  we  talked  about 
father's  money,  and  then  we  were  all  angry.  I  sup- 
pose I  hadn't  quite  recovered  from  the  strain  of  his 
death,  because  all  that  hurt  me,  and  I  could  only  think 
that  I  had  really  loved  him,  and  might  have  loved  him 
much  more  if  things  had  been  somehow  different.  And 
then  when  I  saw  that  kind,  common  woman  it  opened 
up  another  kind  of  life  going  on  apart  from  money 
and  position  and  amusement,  all  the  things  we  were  so 
proud  of.  It  horrified  me  at  first,  of  course.  It  is 
dreadful  because  it  is  secret.  In  itself —  Well,  any- 
how, the  only  other  thing  in  my  life  that  was  the  least 
bit  like  it  and  could  stand  against  it  was  my  absurd 
little  affair  with  you  in  Scotland.  So  you  see,  I 
had  begun  to  think  of  you  even  before  Rachel  met 
you." 

"Absurd !"    Rene  winced  at  the  word. 

"Wasn't  it?  I  couldn't  have  gone  on  with  it,  you 
know.  It  made  me  feel  so  helpless,  and  I  felt  so  mean, 
letting  you  care  so  much.  Your  letters  used  to  frighten 
me." 

"But  you  cared  for  me  ?" 

"Yes,  yes ;  with  one  eye  on  you  and  the  other  on  my 
mother." 

Rene  thought  that  over  uneasily.  He  was  discon- 
certed  by  this  cool  young  woman.  The  enchantment 
of  their  meeting  had  roused  and  invigorated  him,  and, 
as  usual,  he  had  surrendered  to  the  emotional  flux  of 
the  encounter  and  was  prepared  for  wonders,  which,  as 

308 


MEETING 

usual,  did  not  come,  or,  at  least,  were  not  palpable. 
His  eyes  never  left  her  face.  It  was  lit  with  a  smile  of 
happiness,  an  incommunicable  joy. 

Unconscious  of  their  surroundings  they  had  reached 
Kensington  Gardens,  and  stood  by  the  railings  outside 
the  Palace  looking  over  the  Round  Pond.  A  gray 
October  day:  the  trees  gaunt  and  shabby;  the  heavy 
clouds  tumbled  and  ragged.  A  cold  northwest  wind 
was  blowing.  Rene's  ungloved  hands  were  blue. 

He  gripped  Cathleen's  arm,  and  she  turned  her 
happy  eyes  on  him. 

"That's  good,"  she  said.  "You  were  so  strong 
then." 

"Cathleen,  I  mustn't  lose  sight  of  you  again.  You 
make  me  forget  everything  that  has  been,  though  that 
isn't  quite  what  I  wanted  to  say." 

"I  shan't  lose  sight  of  you,  my  dear.  It  doesn't  mat- 
ter what  happens  to  either  of  us." 

Rene  said: 

"A  good  deal  has  happened  to  me." 

"Tell  me." 

He  told  her.  She  received  his  story  in  silence.  At 
last  she  said: 

"If  you  have  a  friend,  it  doesn't  matter  what  he 
does.  All  the  same,  it's  a  nuisance." 

"What  is?" 

"The  nuisance  is  that  I'm  a  woman  and  you're  a 
man.  Can  friendship  get  over  that  ?" 

"Love,"  said  Rene,  "can  master  everything.  I  love 
you.  Shall  we  start  with  that?  That's  clear,  any- 
how." 

309 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"Clear?  Oh,  yes;  but  it  means  being  very  certain 
about  it  and  definite.  Some  of  the  charm  of  love  goes. 
It  is  gone  already  from  me." 

"I'm  sorry." 

"Don't.  I'm  trying  not  to  pity  you.  Oh,  Rene,  my 
foolish  dear,  I  only  want  to  love  you  and  help  you." 

"It  is  you  who  are  strong,"  he  said. 

She  moved  closer  to  him,  so  that  she  could  just 
touch  him. 

"We  shall  need  all  the  strength  we  can  get  if  we  are 
not  to  be  broken — strength  and  patience." 

"I  have  a  friend,"  said  he,  "who  thinks  that  all  the 
confusion  comes  from  sloth  and  fear." 

"I  should  like  to  meet  that  friend." 


II 

HAPPINESS 

Human  lack  of  power  in  moderating  and  checking  the 
emotions  I  call  servitude.  For  a  man  who  is  submissive  to 
his  emotions  is  not  in  power  over  himself,  but  in  the  hands 
of  fortune  to  such  an  extent  that  he  is  often  constrained, 
although  he  may  see  what  is  better  for  him,  to  follow  what 
is  worse.  —  SPINOZA'S  Ethics. 


ATHLEEN  lived  in  Bloomsbury  with  a  friend  of 
hers,  a  Miss  Cleethorpe,  who  managed  a  hostel 
for  young  women,  clerks,  schoolmistresses,  shop  girls. 
Rene  took  her  there  after  their  long  conversation  in 
Kensington  Gardens,  and  then,  feeling  the  impossibil- 
ity of  going  back  to  Mitcham  Mews,  went  up  to  Kent- 
ish Town  to  see  his  friend  the  sandy-haired  railway 
porter.  He  had  visited  him  once  before,  about  a  year 
ago,  and  could  think  of  no  one  else  with  whom  he 
might  take  refuge.  The  little  man  was  delighted  to 
see  him  : 

"It's  the  sleeper!"  he  cried.  "Lord!  I've  often 
wondered  if  you'd  go  off  again,  and  when  you  told  me 
you  were  in  the  taxi-driving,  I  said  to  myself  :  'Well, 
that'll  keep  him  awake.'  ' 

Yes.  He  would  be  glad  to  let  him  have  a  bed. 
Wanting  to  sleep,  eh?  He  often  felt  like  that  himself  : 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

day  after  day,  day  after  day,  working,  and  the  sub- 
urban traffic  growing  so  fast  that  they  couldn't  put  on 
enough  trains,  and  the  station  morning  and  evening 
was  like  Bedlam. 

"London,"  he  said,  "is  not  what  it  was  when  I  first 
came  to  it.  I  used  to  know  all  the  regular  gentlemen. 
But  now — well,  I  tell  you,  they  don't  have  a  nod  for 
anyone.  A  bee-line  for  the  city  in  the  morning,  and  a 
bee-line  for  home  in  the  evening.  It  makes  you  feel 
small,  it  does." 

Rene  sympathized  with  him.  His  days  also  had  been 
devoted  to  impersonal  service,  and  he  had  known  the 
humiliation  of  it. 

Now  his  only  desire  was  to  see  Cathleen  again.  To 
taste  once  more  the  vigor  and  keen  energy  with  which 
her  presence  filled  him.  The  thought  of  her  was  not 
enough.  It  roused  a  flood  of  emotion  too  strong  for 
his  unpracticed  control.  He  warmed  to  the  idea  of  her 
beauty.  When  he  was  with  her  her  beauty  was  axio- 
matic, food  for  rejoicing  without  disturbance,  a  mere 
accident,  one  to  be  thankful  for,  yet  no  more  than  a 
light  bidding  to  the  thrilling  pursuit  of  her  elusive- 
ness. 

He  had  arranged  to  see  her  the  next  day  in  the  even- 
ing. She  worked  as  secretary  in  an  Art  School  and 
was  not  free  until  after  five.  He  spent  the  day  in 
happy  brooding  over  the  coming  delight  of  seeing  her, 
and  preparing  with  boyish  dandyism  for  it.  He  had 
his  hair  cut  and  his  chin  shaved  (he  had  grown  a  mus- 
tache), and  he  bought  a  clean  shirt  and  collar.  In  a 
book  shop  he  saw  the  anthology  from  which  they  had 

312 


HAPPINESS 

read  together  and  could  not  resist  going  in  and  buying 
it.  He  was  ashamed  of  himself  when  he  had  done  that, 
and  hid  it  away  among  the  railway  porter's  rather 
strange  collection  of  books — More's  Utopia,  The  Mas- 
ter Christian,  Marcus  Aurelius,  some  books  of  Edward 
Carpenter's,  Foxe's  Book  of  Martyrs,  and  Arsene 
Lupin. 

Cathleen  received  him  in  her  little  bed-sitting-room 
at  the  top  of  the  big  grim  house,  which  smelled  of 
food,  ink,  and  washing.  She  had  made  her  den 
very  pretty,  and  he  recognized  a  picture  he 
had  given  her  long  ago,  and  one  or  two  trinkets 
that  her  mother  had  had  in  her  boudoir  in  Scotland. 
The  walls  were  of  plain  brown  paper,  and  there 
were  gay-colored  stuffs  by  the  windows  and  on 
the  sofa. 

She  took  in  his  spruceness  at  a  glance,  was  pleased 
by  it,  and  laughed. 

"I  must  give  you  a  buttonhole,"  she  said,  "as  I 
used  to  do.  You  look  so  wonderfully  the  same." 

Rene  trembled  as  she  came  to  him  and  pinned  a 
flower  in  his  coat. 

"Sit  down,"  she  said.  "I  think  we  can  talk  better 
here." 

Rene  sat  awkwardly  on  the  sofa,  she  by  the  fire, 
which  she  stirred  with  the  poker. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I  feel  rather  a  beast.  I  couldn't 
help  flirting  with  you  a  little  yesterday.  That's  got  to 
stop." 

"Were  you — flirting?" 

"I  was." 

313 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"I  thought  you  were  glad  to  see  me — as  glad  as  I 
was  to  see  you." 

"I  was  glad.  I'd  been  having  a  foolishly  miserable 
time.  Living  in  this  house  is  rather  terrible  with 
nothing  but  women,  unmarried  women.  You  don't 
know.  They  come  here  young,  many  of  them  from 
the  country.  Then  they  go  out  to  work  in  the  day  and 
come  in  in  the  evening.  They  haven't  enough  money 
to  pay  for  amusements.  They're  too  respectable  to 
look  for  fun  in  the  streets.  They  hardly  dare  have  a 
man-friend,  the  others  are  so  jealous,  so  rigid,  so  un- 
comprehending. ' ' 
Rene  said : 

"I  had  a  feeling  that  my  presence  here  was  an  of- 
fense." 

Cathleen  laughed: 

"That's  why  I  asked  you.  I  thought  it  would  do 
them  good  to  see  you.  It  did  me  so  much  good.  I 
think  I  was  getting  infected  by  it.  Lotta,  my  friend, 
escapes  into  the  country  now  and  then.  She  has  a 
cottage.  I  go  too  sometimes,  but  her  consolations  are 
not  mine.  She  has  a  garden  and  makes  jams  and 
fruit-wines.  I  want  something  more  than  that.  I 
don't  want  to  console  myself  until  I  have  to.  If  I 
were  going  to  do  that  I  might  just  as  well  have  stayed 
with  my  mother.  On  the  other  hand,  I  don't  want  to 
flirt  with  you,  my  friend.  It  wouldn't  be  fair  to  you." 
"What  do  you  want,  then?" 

"I  want  to  be  able  to  assume  that  we  love  each  other. 
We  can  be  frank  then.  It  sounds  uncomfortably  in- 
tellectual, I  know,  but  that  will  be  less  disastrous  than 


HAPPINESS 

being  uncomfortably  emotional.  You  used  to  think 
about  these  things.  You  made  me  think.  You  haven't 
stopped  ?" 

"No.  No.  But  I  have  such  a  longing  for  simplicity. 
I  don't  know  why  there  is  all  this  fuss  made  about 
love." 

"Because  people  will  exploit  the  first  excitement  of 
it.  Blake  said: 

He  who  catches  a  joy  as  it  flies 
Lives  in  eternity's  sunrise." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Rene.  "All  I  know 
is  that  I  don't  want  to  let  you  go." 

"But  you  may  have  to.  We  had  a  wonderful  thing 
yesterday.  We  may  not  be  able  to  rise  to  it  again." 

"I  don't  care  about  that.    I  want  you." 

"Only  because  we  had  that  moment  yesterday." 

"I  don't  know  why  it  is." 

"But  I  know  and  I  care,  and  I  want  to  keep  the 
memory  of  it.  I  don't  mind  it's  being  darkened  by 
circumstances,  if  it  must  be,  but  I  do  mind  it's  being 
spoiled  by  our  own  weakness.  Men  are  always  gird- 
ing at  women  for  caring  about  nothing  but  love.  They 
may  gird  fairly  when  we  are  untrue  to  love  and  let 
men  belittle  it  with  their  impatience  and  arrogance.  I 
ought  not  to  say  that  to  you,  because  you  have  tried, 
and  I  have  done  nothing  but  argue  with  myself." 

"I  think  you  have  found  something  which  I  have 
not  even  begun  to  see." 

"And  argued  about  it." 

315 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"I  don't  see  what  else  you  could  do." 
Cathleen  thrust  silently  at  the  fire  and  said  savagely : 
"Oh!  don't  you?    I  thought  I  was  going  to  be  so 
free  with  my  two  hundred  pounds.    Free,  to  do  what  ? 
Walk  in  suffrage  processions,  break  windows,  insult 
policemen.     I  was  free  to  do  what  I  liked,  but  I  liked 
nothing  very  much.    I  was  too  fastidious  and  could  not 
take  wrhat  came.    Things  did  come.    They  lacked  this 
or  that  necessary   for  my   satisfaction.     When  my 
money  was  gone  I  had  to  creep  into  shelter  away  from 
the  freedom  I  did  not  know  how  to  use,  and  ask  for 
work  to  keep  myself  alive,  just  like  the  girls  and  wom- 
en in  this  house,  who  keep  themselves  alive  for  noth- 
ing, so  far  as  I  can  see,  except  the  pleasure  of  being 
tired  and  bored  and  malicious.     I  was  in  a  bad  way, 
Rene,  when  I  met  you.    I  used  to  go  to  Rachel,  who 
is  the  only  one  of  the  family  who  will  have  anything 
to  do  with  me,  and  sometimes  I  envied  her  in  her 
stupid,  unhappy  comfort.    She  doesn't  get  on  with  her 
husband,  but  she  has  a  nice  house  and  two  children 
who  alternately  infuriate  and  amuse  her.     That  was 
impossible  for  me.    I'd  hate  it,  just  living  with  a  man 
to  keep  a  household  together.    But  then  even  now  I've 
hated  the  alternative  I  had  arrived  at,  this  being  hud- 
dled away  with  a  lot  of  useless  women.     Working 
women!     A  genteel  occupation  to  support  a  genteel 
existence.     The  selfishness  of  it!     People  like  to  pre- 
tend that  motherhood  solves  everything  for  a  woman. 
It  may  give  occupation  to  a  dependent  woman,  but 
why  should  it  destroy  her  selfishness  any  more  than 
another  physical  fact?    If  she  insists  on  it  too  much, 

316 


HAPPINESS 

it  cannot  do  anything  but  accentuate  her  selfishness. 
Women  can  be  just  as  greedy  about  motherhood  as 
about  eating  or  drinking  or  love,  and  they  can  just  as 
easily  spoil  it  with  overindulgence.  Don't  look  so 
unhappy,  Rene.  I'm  not  arguing  with  you.  I've  had 
to  think  so  much,  and  for  months  I  haven't  had  a  soul 
to  talk  to  like  this.  Even  Lotta  has  her  world  so 
shaped  and  trim  (she's  efficient,  you  see)  that  all  my 
doubts  and  wonderings  are  just  an  annoyance  to  her, 
though  no  one  could  be  kinder.  I  don't  know  what  I 
should  have  done  without  her.  It  was  such  a  com- 
fort to  find  a  woman  working  really  well,  without  in- 
sisting that  hers  is  the  only  way  of  living,  and  doing 
good  without  wanting  to  be  thankful  for  it.  She  made 
me  patient.  When  you  have  decided  what  you  do  not 
wish  to  do,  you  are  apt  to  think  anything  different 
must  be  better.  You're  not  sorry  you  made  the  ordi- 
nary career  impossible  for  yourself?" 

"Sorry?"  said  Rene,  puzzled.  "It  was  never  a 
thing  to  be  sorry  about  or  glad  about.  It  just  hap- 
pened and  I  felt  better.  And  now  I  have  met  you  and 
everything  is  changed  again.  I  didn't  go  to  my  home 
last  night." 

"No?" 

"I  went  to  an  old  friend  of  mine  who  lives  happily 
and  contentedly.  I  wanted  to  see  happiness  and  con- 
tentment. Somehow  you  had  made  me  sure  of  my- 
self, and  I  felt  that  everything  was  changed.  But  the 
change  was  in  myself.  In  nearly  everybody  I  have 
been  more  conscious  of  the  things  they  lack  than  of 
the  things  they  have.  I  had  been  bolstering  myself  up 

31? 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

with  contempt — for  myself  as  well  as  everything  else. 
It  was  that  or  being  sorry  for  myself.  Always  a 
struggle.  I  can't  see  it  clearly  yet :  like  righting  with- 
out weapons  and  without  a  cause.  I  had  no  desire  to 
live  irregularly  and  uncomfortably  or  to  come  in  con- 
flict with  accepted  opinion  as  to  conduct.  But  I  don't 
see  why  opinion  should  be  antagonistic  to  a  man's 
private  affairs.  I  wasn't  antagonistic.  I  was  only 
doing  confusedly  what  I  felt  very  clearly  and  had 
always  felt  to  be  right.  I  feel  certain  now  that  I 
ought  to  have  done  so  long  before.  I'd  like  to  explain 
that  to  all  sorts  of  people,  except  that  honestly  I  can't 
take  much  interest  in  it.  I  had  a  vague  sickening  feel- 
ing that  the  end  of  the  world  had  come,  but  that  was 
only  because  I  could  not  see  an  inch  before  me. 
The  end  of  the  world  did  not  come,  neither  for 
me  nor  for — her.  It  seems  stupid  to  be  explaining 
all  this  to  you.  I  know  you  will  not  think  I  am 
excusing  myself,  because  I  am  sure  you  accept  me  as 
lam " 

"Theoretically,"  said  Cathleen,  looking  up  at  him 
with  a  quick  smile.  "You  see,  I  have  lived  on  theory, 
not  my  own,  either;  Lotta's.  And  I  don't  know 
whether  my  theory  can  hold  out  against  your  prac- 
tice, any  more  than  my  sentimental  girlish  fictions 
could.  You  upset  them,  you  know,  and  you  are  just 
as  disconcerting  as  ever.  Shall  you  go  on  with  your 
work?" 

"I  can't  think  of  anything  else  I  should  like  so 
well." 

"And  that  girl?" 


HAPPINESS 

"That's  what  we  have  both  been  thinking  about  all 
the  time." 

"Yes." 

Cathleen  rose  and  walked  over  to  the  window  and 
looked  out.  She  stood  then  for  so  long  that  Rene 
followed  her  and  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder.  The 
window  gave  on  to  a  row  of  back  gardens  with  a  few 
trees,  black  and  bare.  Opposite  was  a  lighted  window 
through  which  could  be  seen  four  girls  sewing — 
stitch,  stitch,  stitch. 

"I  have  often  watched  them,"  said  Cathleen,  "and 
wondered  what  might  be  in  their  lives.  Desire?  Re- 
ligion ?  Love  ?  What  is  it  makes  it  possible  for  them 
to  work  so  mechanically  and  so  happily." 

"Fun,"  said  Rene.  "They  want  fun,  spiced  with  the 
risk  of  having  to  pay  for  it." 

"Is  she  like  that?" 

"She  was.    But  there  is  something  more." 

"There  would  be,"  said  Cathleen.  "She  couldn't 
love  you  without  being  moved  out  of  herself  and  the 
habits  of  her  class.  That  is  why  I  am  sorry  for  her. 
Are  you  going  back  to  her?" 

"Not  yet." 

"I  think  you  ought  to  write  to  her." 

"I  was  waiting  until  I  had  seen  you  again,  and  made 
quite  sure 

"And  you  are  sure  now  ?" 

"I  feel  now  that  we  shall  always  be  together,  gaz- 
ing out  on  the  world." 

"And  finding  it  so  wonderful." 

They  were  silent  then,  and  in  each  for  other  was 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

the  same  song  of  life  and  love,  a  music  passing  thought 
and  understanding.  So  they  remained  for  a  time  that 
was  no  time,  hardly  conscious  of  their  bodies  whose 
slight  contact  gave  them  strength  for  flight.  Easily 
they  ranged  back  in  spirit  -to  their  youth,  and  caught  up 
its  sweetness  and  melody. 

They  were  broken  in  upon  by  Miss  Cleethorpe,  a 
pale,  gray-haired  lady  whose  eyes  smiled  kindly  amuse- 
ment at  their  helplessness.  Bringing  help  to  the  help- 
less and  forcing  them  to  help  themselves  was  the  whole 
practice  of  her  life.  Lovers,  dogs,  indigent  young 
women,  were  the  material  in  which  she  worked. 

She  was  presented  to  Rene,  and  gave  him  a  grip  of 
the  hand  that  startled  him  with  its  vigor.  Turning  to 
Cathleen,  she  said : 

"The  girls  have  sent  up  a  deputation  to  me  to  say 
you  have  had  a  man  in  your  room  for  the  last  two 
hours,  that  it  is  against  the  rules,  and  that  it  is  not 
quite  proper.  Ten  minutes  they  could  have  over- 
looked. I  said  that  Mr.  Fourmy  was  a  very  old 
friend,  and  that  I  knew  all  about  it,  but  they  insisted 
that  I  must  come  and  chaperone  you,  and  here  I  am. 
Speaks  well  for  my  authority,  doesn't  it  ?" 

Rene  was  so  distressed  at  the  thought  of  the  young 
women  contemning  Cathleen  that  he  was  almost 
speechless.  He  muttered  that  he  must  go. 

"You  mustn't  go,"  said  Lotta,  "before  I  have 
thanked  you  for  what  you  have  done  for  Cathleen. 
She  came  home  last  night  looking  perfectly  radiant — 
and  look  at  her  now."  ( She  had  turned  up  the  lights. ) 

320 


HAPPINESS 

Cathleen  was  standing  with  her  hands  lightly  clasped 
in  front  of  her,  her  head  thrown  back,  her  lips  parted, 
and  in  her  eyes  a  golden  tenderness.  She  smiled  and 
shook  her  head  slowly,  and  came  to  her  friend  and 
kissed  her.  Lotta  put  her  arms  round  her  and  hugged 
her. 

"You  two  poor  sillies,"  she  said,  "what  a  heavy  bur- 
den you  have  shouldered." 

Rene  grinned : 

"I  don't  feel  the  weight  of  it,"  he  said. 

Lotta  gazed  full  at  him.  He  met  her  eyes,  searching 
him. 

"Are  you  going  back  to  your  stables  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  want  two  more  days  of  this." 

"Would  you  like  to  take  it  down  to  the  country? 
There's  a  west  wind  blowing  over  my  hills,  and  win- 
ter is  coming  in." 

Like  children,  Rene  and  Cathleen  gazed  at  each 
other  in  surprised  delight. 


Ill 

THE  WEST  WIND 

Days,  that  in  spite 

Of  darkness,  by  the  light 

Of  a  clear  mind  are  day  all  night 

XJORTHWEST  of  London  there  are  hills,  where 
•^  the  air  is  eager  and  the  upper  winds  are  caught 
in  woods  as  they  come  cloud-bearing  from  the  wild 
sky.  Often  the  winds  fling  clouds  about  the  hills  and 
leave  them  entangled  in  the  woods.  Such  a  cloud  they 
had  left  on  the  Saturday  morning  when  Lotta  Clee- 
thorpe  brought  Rene  and  Cathleen  to  her  retreat,  an 
old  white  cottage  on  the  border  of  a  long  common 
brown  with  dead  heather,  orange  with  wet  withered 
bracken,  olive-green  with  the  gorse  and  the  close- 
cropped  grass  under  the  gray  mist.  Out  of  this,  as 
they  drove  from  the  station,  loomed  trees  and  hay- 
stacks and  houses.  A  public-house  and  a  church  stood 
at  the  end  of  the  common.  Soon  they  passed  a  black- 
smith's shop  with  the  bellows  in  full  blast,  the  sparks 
flying  and  the  smith's  huge  arms  and  swart  face  lit 
up  by  the  red  glow.  There  came  out  the  merry  clink 
of  hammers  on  the  anvil,  and  then  the  hiss  of  the 
red-hot  metal  plunged  into  water. 

322 


THE  WEST  WIND 

Rene  said: 

"The  beginning  of  it  all." 

"Of  what?"  asked  Lotta. 

"Modern  life."  And  he  found  himself  thinking  of 
Kurt,  who  had  just  added  to  his  laurels  the  first  prize 
in  a  race  to  Berlin. 

They  reached  Lotta's  cottage.  Apple-trees  stood 
by  the  gate,  a  clipped  box-tree  by  the  door.  A  sheep- 
dog came  bounding  along  the  road,  cleared  the  gate, 
and  pawed  frantically  at  Lotta  until  she  crouched  and 
he  could  lay  his  forelegs  on  her  shoulders  and  lick  her 
face  in  a  frenzied  greeting. 

"He  lives  at  the  public-house  when  I  am  not  here, 
but  he  refuses  to  regard  it  as  anything  but  lodgings. 
Down,  Sammy!  You  know  Cathleen.  Say  How  do 
to  Mr.  Fourmy." 

Sammy  cocked  his  head,  looked  the  other  way,  and 
lifted  his  paw.  Rene  shook  it.  The  dog  returned  to 
his  mistress,  who  said : 

"I  can't  keep  my  hands  off  the  garden.  It  has  got 
into  such  a  dreadful  state.  You  two  had  better  go  for 
a  walk.  You'll  find  toadstools  in  the  woods  and  there 
may  be  a  few  blackberries  left." 

She  gave  them  a  basket  and  sent  them  forth. 

When  they  came  to  the  woods,  Rene  said: 

"It  wants  only  the  river  and  I  could  believe  that  we 
had  never  lost  each  other  for  a  single  day.  There  were 
just  such  mists  then:  the  same  drip  in  the  trees,  the 
same  mysterious  shrouding  of  the  life  of  the  woods." 

They  wandered  for  miles,  happy,  hardly  conscious 
of  each  other  in  the  joy  they  shared.  The  mist  clung 

323 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

about  their  hair,  their  eyebrows,  and  whipped  up  the 
color  in  their  cheeks  and  made  their  eyes  to  shine. 
Each  new  path  they  came  to  was  a  promise  of  adven- 
ture, and  always  in  color  and  mystery  and  the  play  of 
light  the  woods  fulfilled  that  promise.  Rene  jumped 
all  the  stiles  and  teased  Cathleen  because  she  was 
only  a  wroman  and  could  not  do  the  same,  and  she 
pointed  out  that  men  needed  to  do  extravagant  things 
like  jumping  stiles  or  they  became  flabby,  whereas 
women  had  a  more  instinctive  economy  and  were 
physically  more  subtle. 

"Women,"  said  Rene,  "are  ridiculous." 

"From  a  man's  point  of  view.  No  more  ridiculous 
than  a  man  from  a  woman's  point  of  view.  The  ab- 
surdity disappears  -when  they  love  each  other.  Then 
male  extravagance  and  feminine  subtlety  are  only  in- 
cidentals  " 

"Wise  young  woman." 

"I'm  a  fraud  really,  Rene.  It's  pure  Lotta.  She 
was  trained  as  a  doctor,  you  know,  and  really  has 
watched  people.  I  only  guess." 

"That's  my  trouble,  too.  I  only  feel  quite  sure  when 
I  reach  a  certain  stage  of  emotion." 

"I  never  feel  .quite  sure.  Nor  does  Lotta.  How  can 
anyone?  She  says  she  has  observed  certain  things. 
She  says  men  and  women  only  make  love  to  each  other 
as  a  rule  because  they  love  each  other  so  little  that  they 
have  nothing  else  in  common." 

"And  you  and  I ?" 

"Have  everything." 

Rene  laughed. 

324 


THE  WEST  WIND 

"Except  the  power  to  jump  stiles." 

"Oh!    I  love  to  see  you  do  it." 

"And  I  love  to  see  your  inability." 

"We  both  get  over  it.    That  is  all  that  matters." 

"That's  a  hard,  common-sensible  woman." 

They  reached  a  place  where  the  trees — beech,  pine, 
and  larch — came  marching  up  a  steep  hill,  so  steep  that 
they  could  see  over  the  tops  of  the  trees  out  to  the  plain 
beneath.  The  mists  wreathed  and  broke.  A  pale  blue 
sky  shone  through  them,  and  the  sun  cast  pale  yellow 
lights.  Cathleen  began  to  sing  as  they  plunged  down 
the  hill.  Rene  started  to  run,  could  not  stop  himself, 
and  went  tearing  down,  shouting  like  mad  until  he 
was  brought  up  by  a  wide  ditch.  There  he  turned  and 
watched  Cathleen  threading  her  way  through  the  trees, 
singing.  The  wind  came  roaring,  whispering  and  mut- 
tering through  the  leaves,  and  the  trees  swayed  and 
moaned.  Cathleen  came  running  the  last  few  yards, 
and  he  caught  her.  She  held  up  her  laughing  face  and 
they  kissed,  and  the  wind  seemed  to  sweep  through 
them  and  set  them  swaying  like  the  trees.  Their  blood 
raced  in  their  glee. 

On  the  way  back  they  gathered  blackberries,  and  in 
a  green  clearing  in  the  woods  they  found  mushrooms. 
Happy  they  were  to  take  such  treasure  back  to  Lotta, 
their  friend,  who  had  made  such  wonders  possible  for 
them. 

She  had  supper  ready  for  them,  the  lamp  and  the  fire 
lit,  the  curtains  drawn  in  the  cozy  kitchen.  After  they 
had  eaten,  they  sat  with  cigarettes  and  coffee  and  pep- 
permints round  the  fire. 

325 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

Lotta  said : 

"I  knew  you  would  find  what  you  wanted  here.  I 
think  all  lovers  should  bring  their  love  to  the  earth  and 
let  the  wind  know  that  it  is  there.  How  can  you  love 
in  streets  and  houses?  They  drive  the  sweetness  out 
of  it  and  keep  it  unnaturally  excited.  I  have  seen  so 
much  of  that.  Women  especially  are  so  house-con- 
scious. They  hate  everything  in  love  which  threatens 
their  pride  of  possession  and  position.  They  live 
so  jealously  that  they  want  jealousy  even  in  their 
love— ^- " 

"Thank  you,"  said  Rene. 

"For  what?" 

"For  being  so  frank.  I  never  was  in  a  house  before 
where  there  was  no  oppression  in  the  atmosphere." 

"The  house  is  so  much  happier  since  I  came  to  it. 
It  was  occupied  before  by  an  old  woman  who  never 
set  foot  outside  the  door  for  thirty  years.  We  talk 
abusively  about  life  in  London,  but  life  in  villages  is 
even  more  sordid.  Country  people  live  even  more 
meanly  and  graspingly  than  townsfolk.  There  is  more 
stagnation.  They  are  all  inbred.  The  people  here  are 
all  married  to  cousins,  and  they  are  queer  in  the  head 
and  abnormal.  Personally,  I  think  the  great  towns 
grew  out  of  the  necessity  for  breaking  all  that  up. 
English  life  was  far  too  like  a  novel  by  Emily  Bronte. 
It  had  to  be  broken  up  and  readjusted.  It  was  much 
more  that  than  the  desire  for  money.  You  are  both 
such  children  that  you  have  hardly  had  time  to  realize 
the  kind  of  life  in  which  you  were  brought  up.  You 
have  both  shaken  free  of  it  with  the  violence  that 

326 


THE  WEST  WIND 

makes  one  so  hopeful  of  the  younger  generation. 
When  you  are  as  old  as  I  am,  you  will  be  able  to  real- 
ize far  more  than  I  have  done.  The  readjustment 
will  be  more  nearly  completed.  The  reaction  from 
the  evils  of  industrial  life  will  be  even  more  violent 
than  the  reaction  from  those  of  agrarian  life.  You 
will  know  how  rare  love  is,  and  you  will  rejoice  that 
it  was  given  to  you  to  feel  it,  even  though,  as  it  must 
not,  it  were  to  end  to-night."  She  turned  to  Rene 
and  smiled  at  him  with  her  soft  eyes.  "Cathleen  has 
told  me." 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "I  seem  to  have  floundered 
into  being  forced  to  live  my  own  life  in  my  own 
way." 

"Cathleen  too.  You  can  only  do  it  together.  Neither 
of  you  could  put  up  with  a  mate  who  desired  less  and 
regarded  every  emotion  as  a  bond  instead  of  a  liber- 
ation. Love  is  the  release  of  the  spirit  or  it  is  not 
love." 

"And  if  others  are  to  be  unhappy?" 

"That  is  their  affair.  You  don't  seem  to  have  let 
that  worry  you  much  until  now." 

"I  never  saw  things  so  clearly  before.  There  came 
a  crisis,  and  I  just  plunged  blindly.  I  have  a  horror  of 
doing  that  again." 

"But  I  don't  think  you'll  ever  mind  making  a  fool 
of  yourself,  Rene.  You  never  did,"  said  Cathleen. 

"Perhaps  not,  my  dear,  but  I  should  hate  to  make  a 
fool  of  you." 

"Everyone,"  said  Lotta,  "makes  mistakes.  It  isn't 
everyone  who  will  admit  them.  Once  they  are  admit- 

327 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

ted  they  often  turn  out  extremely  profitable.  Really 
I  don't  see  that  you  two  need  have  any  but  financial 
anxiety,  and  that  is  easily  surmounted.  Marriage? 
Neither  of  you  has  a  scrap  of  conventional  religion. 
You  can't  possibly  be  worried  by  scruples.  Really  the 
marriage  laws  of  this  country  are  in  such  a  mess  that 
it  has  become  almost  a  duty  for  decent  people  to  trans- 
gress them.  They  won't  be  altered  in  our  time,  so 
there  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  disregard  them.  You 
have  quite  enough  real  difficulties  to  face  without 
troubling  yourselves  about  artificial  ones.  A  few  vir- 
tuous people  won't  know  you  ?  What  are  they  to  you 
or  you  to  them  ?" 

"It  all  comes  back,"  said  Cathleen,  "to  that  girl." 
"She  took  her  risks.     She  knew  that.     They  have 
courage,  some  of  those  girls." 

"Is  courage,"  asked  Rene,  "all  that  is  necessary?" 
"I  think  so.  It  is  only  lack  of  courage  that  has 
made  rules  of  conduct  and  religious  maxims  and  pre- 
cepts— crutches  and  props.  We're  all  very  stupid  at 
conduct,  but  if  we  live  by  rule  and  habit  there  is  no 
hope  of  our  getting  any  better." 

"But  you  have  rules  for  your  hostel." 
"I  always  allow  them  to  be  broken  when  there  is 
anything  to  be  gained  by  it.  I  love  defiance,  but  I  hate 
slyness.  Rules  must  be  broken,  they  must  not  be 
evaded.  But  we  are  beginning  to  talk  for  the  sake  of 
talking,  and  Cathleen  is  nearly  asleep.  I'm  glad  you 
have  had  a  good  day." 

"Such  a  day,"  he  said,  "as  I  never  had.    I  seem  to 
have  found  that  for  which  I  have  always  been  search- 

328 


THE  WEST  WIND 

ing,  and  it  has  made  everything  valuable,  even  those 
things  that  I  have  most  hated." 

"I  hope,"  said  Lotta,  "that  you  don't  think  you  have 
arrived 'at  any  conclusion.  It  is  impossible  to  decide 
anything  about  life.  It  is  possible  only  to  live — some- 
times." 

They  went  to  bed  very  early.  The  wind  had  risen  to . 
a  gale  and  screamed  in  the  chimneys  and  the  eaves. 

Hardly  had  Rene  sunk  into  sleep,  the  quick  easy 
slumber  of  health  and  peace,  than  he  was  roused  by  a 
fearful  din.  Leaping  out  of  bed,  he  ran  to  the  window 
and  opened  it.  The  wind  came  rushing  in  upon  his 
bare  chest  and  made  him  gasp  for  breath.  Out  on  the 
road  was  a  crowd  of  men  armed  with  rattles,  tin  cans, 
kettles,  baths,  which  they  banged  and  whirled  in  the 
air  as  they  marched  solemnly  up  the  road  to  the  next 
cottage.  There  they  moved  slowly  up  and  down,  mak- 
ing a  terrible  noise  and  chanting: 

There's  evil  enough  between  wind  and  water 
Without  your  tumbling  of  the  farmer's  daughter. 
Do  you  hear  Billy  Bows  behind  the  door? 
There's  no  honest  girl  shall  be  a  whore, 

With  a  billy,  billy,  billy, 

Billy  blow. 

They  kept  this  up  for  a  couple  of  hours  in  the  wind 
and  the  rain,  until  at  last  with  three  groans  and  hoots 
they  broke  up  and  trailed  off  into  the  darkness. 

Rene  asked  Lotta  next  morning  what  they  might  be 
doing,  and  she  told  him  that  the  man  in  the  cottage 

329 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

was  an  unpopular  character  who  had  been  annoying 
and  molesting  a  girl  in  the  village. 

"That  is  public  opinion.  They  wouldn't  have 
minded  if  he  had  been  a  popular  man,  or  a  rich  man. 
They  would  have  blamed  the  girl  in  that  case." 

Lotta  was  staying  on  for  a  day  or  two.    Rene  took 
Cathleen  back  to  London.    He  told  her  he  was  going 
to  his  work  and  Mitcham  Mews  and  Ann. 
"You  heard  what  Lotta  said?" 
"About  the  noise  last  night  and  the  girl?" 
"Yes.    I  think  it's  true.    Ann  will  be  blamed  by  her 
own  class." 

"Would  you  like  me  to  go  and  see  her  ?" 
"I  don't  know.     I'll  tell  you  that  when  I  have  got 
things  straight  with  her — if  I  ever  do." 

"I  can  wait,  Rene,"  she  said.    "Time  doesn't  seem 
to  matter  now.     Isn't  Lotta  splendid?" 
"Splendid!" 

They  shook  hands  as  they  parted,  and  each  prom- 
ised to  write. 


EXPLANATION 

Mais,  helas!  quelle  raison 
Te  fait  quitter  la  maison?  .  .  . 
Et  qu'est-ce  que  je  puis  faire 
Que  je  ne  fasse  pour  toi? 

DURING  the  three  days  of  Rene's  absence  Ann 
did  not  speak  to  a  soul.  She  found  the  comfort 
of  mortification  in  reading  the  attorney's  letter  from 
Edinburgh.  It  made  her  feel  hardly  used,  and  that 
was  pleasant.  Rene  had  crept  into  her  life  under  pre- 
text of  being  at  an  end  of  his  resources  when  he  was 
incredibly  rich.  It  was  not  fair:  it  was  abominable. 
The  grievance  became  such  an  obsession  as  to  ob- 
scure her  real  dread  and  anxiety.  In  her  almost 
crazy  desire  to  defend  herself  against  the  alien  power 
that  was  coming  to  him  she  tore  up  the  letter  and 
burned  it.  He  would  not  know.  She  would  keep 
him.  She  would  get  him  to  take  her  away.  It  was  a 
good  idea  of  Casey's.  They  would  all  go  down  into 
the  country.  Casey  said  there  were  cinemas  in  the 
country.  Through  the  whole  of  the  last  night  she 
sat  brooding  in  the  darkness.  Every  now  and  then 
she  would  pretend  that  he  was  there  in  the  next  room, 

331 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

in  the  bed,  and  she  would  cling  to  this  pretense  until 
she  had  deceived  herself  and  could  almost  believe  that 
she  heard  him  there.  Yes.  He  was  stirring  in  his 
sleep  as  he  often  did.  She  would  go  into  the  room 
and  run  her  hand  over  the  pillows.  And  her  disap- 
pointment was  a  relief.  It  would  have  been  terrible 
to  have  found  him  there  when  she  knew  he  was  away. 
Where  was  he?  Whom  was  he  with?  Why  didn't 
that  beast  Kilner  know,  since  it  was  all  that  beast's 
doing,  that  sly  hulk  with  his  sarcastic  way  of  speak- 
ing and  his  eyes  that  looked  at  you  as  if  you  were 
some  sort  of  animal.  It  must  be  Kilner  who  had  got 
him  away.  She  brooded  herself  into  hatred. 

In  the  morning  she  watched  the  painter  go  out,  and 
spat  after  him.  Then  she  took  a  knife,  went  up  to  his 
room,  found  the  picture  on  which  he  was  working, 
and  slashed  it  to  ribbons. 

"Naked  women!"  she  cried  as  she  cut  away  at  the 
canvas.  "Naked  women!  That'll  teach  the  filthy 
brute." 

It  chanced  that  she  was  out  when  Rene  returned, 
and  he  went  up  to  Kilner's  room  in  the  hope  of  finding 
him.  He  saw  the  havoc  that  had  been  wrought,  and 
understood  who  had  done  it.  When  the  painter  re- 
turned Rene  was  still  trying  to  piece  the  canvas  to- 
gether. Without  a  word  Kilner  took  it  in  his  hands, 
and  sat  fingering  it.  He  said: 

"What  luck!  What  infernal  luck!  I  thought  it 
was  going  to  put  me  on  my  feet.  One  of  the  Pro- 
fessors had  been  down  to  see  it  and  was  excited  about 

332 


EXPLANATION 

it.  He  thought  he  could  get  it  sold  for  me.  There's 
months  of  work  in  it." 

"I  shouldn't  have  thought " 

"I  told  you  she  hated  me.  I  didn't  think  she'd  be 
clever  enough  to  know  how  to  get  back  at  me.  Oh ! 
they  are  clever,  these  women,  in  their  own  mean  little 
way.  Drudges,  they  are,  and  drabs.  It's  men  like 
you,  Fourmy,  keep  them  so,  asking  them  for  love  and 
taking  the  much  they  choose  to  give  you,  and  when 
you  sicken  of  it  they  take  their  revenge  where  they 
can." 

"I  never  thought " 

"No.  Damn  you!  You  never  do  think.  By  God, 
I'd  rather  be  the  sort  of  fool  to  whom  a  woman  is  only 
a  meal  or  a  dinner.  There's  less  mischief  in  that. 
What's  the  good  of  your  emotions  if  you  can't  control 
them?  You'd  much  better  give  it  up  like  the  rest  of 
the  world,  shut  yourself  up  in  marriage  to  keep  your- 
self out  of  harm's  way.  Who  the  devil  are  you,  that 
you  should  claim  in  life  the  freedom  an  artist  hopes 
to  get  in  his  art?" 

There  was  enough  truth  in  Kilner's  denunciation  to 
enrage  Rene.  He  had  felt  so  clear  and  confident,  so 
sure  of  mastering  the  event  of  his  evil,  and  all  this 
bitterness  had  him  once  more  throbbing  and  con- 
fused. 

"What,"  he  cried,  "what  does  a  work  of  art  more 
or  less  matter  ?  You  can't  expect  the  rest  of  us  to  live 
in  filthiness  so  that  you  may  paint  pictures  of  a  beauty 
that  is  never  seen." 

To  have  stung  Rene  into  a  hot   fury  seemed  to 

333 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

appease  the  artist  somewhat.  He  grunted  and  said: 
"In  a  way  you're  right,  and  honestly  I  don't  care  a 
hang  about  the  picture.  I  can  paint  it  again  and  better. 
But  I  thought  I  was  going  to  make  some  money  with 
it,  enough  to  get  out  of  this  forever,  and  it  is  almost 
more  than  I  can  bear  to  know  that  the  harm  has  come 
through  you.  It  doesn't  matter.  I'll  paint  it  again. 
I'll  get  the  fierce  little  spark  of  intelligence  burning 
in  Eve.  I'd  left  that  out.  I'll  paint  her  feeling  half 
confident  of  her  superiority  to  both  God  and  Adam, 
and  ashamed  of  having  to  submit  to  their  fatuous  pre- 
tense of  creation,  their  old  theatrical  trick.  Art  and 
religion!  They  stink  of  the  harem  and  aphrodisiacs, 
the  abominable  East,  the  gods  of  lust  and  self-mor- 
tification. What  has  your  trumpery  idealism  to  say 
to  that?" 

He  flung  the  tattered  remains  of  the  picture  on  the 
fire  and  held  it  down.  The  flames  consumed  the  paint 
greedily  and  roared  in  the  chimney. 

"So  much  for  that,"  said  Kilner.  "Finished!  I'll 
start  again  to-morrow.  Let's  go  and  see  your  little 
vixen  and  annoy  her  by  showing  that  she  hasn't  hurt 
us  in  the  least." 

"That's  vindictive." 
"Ho!     Have  you  turned  Christian?" 
"I'm  not  going  to  have  Ann  moithered." 
"And  why  not?    She  must  learn  her  lesson." 
"Let  me  find  out  why  she  did  it  first." 
"I  know  why  she  did  it.     Because  she  thought  I 
had  taken  you  away  from  her." 

"She  can't  have  been  jealous  of  you." 

334 


EXPLANATION 

"Women  are  always  jealous  of  a  man's  men  friends. 
They  know  his  feeling  can  be  just  as  strong  for  them 
without  being  weakened  by  sex.  And  they  hate  that — 
Now,  a  feeling  fortified  by  sex — ah!  but  that  doesn't 
happen." 

"That,"  said  Rene,  "is  exactly  what  has  happened." 

"Eh?    To  you?" 

Rene  nodded,  and  he  told  Kilner  something  of  the 
walk  in  the  west  wind,  the  meeting  with  Cathleen,  the 
deliverance  it  had  brought  to  both  of  them. 

"Does  she  know?    Ann,  I  mean." 

"No.    I  haven't  seen  her." 

"She  must  have  felt  it.  Poor  little  devil!  No, 
I'll  not  see  her.  It's  between  you  two — my  rotten 
picture,  Ann's  rotten  little  dream  of  happiness,  both 
destroyed.  You  look  like  a  destroyer,  my  friend.  It's 
in  your  eyes,  your  gestures,  and  movements.  Absolute 
purpose,  absolute  desire.  There's  nothing  else  worth 
having." 

"How  absurd  you  are,  Kilner.  You  turn  every- 
thing into  a  picture  as  soon  as  you  are  interested  in 
it  at  all.  Purpose !  I  feel  like  a  little  schoolboy  who 
has  to  interview  his  headmaster.  I  felt  just  the  same 
once  when  I  had  been  amusing  myself  with  throwing 
paper  out  of  the  window.  The  headmaster  saw  it,  but 
not  the  culprit.  Then  I  was  away  from  school  ill, 
and  the  whole  form  got  into  trouble  because  no  one 
would  own  up." 

Kilner  shouted  with  laughter: 

"What  a  picture  of  the  young  Fourmy.  Doing 
just  what  he  wanted  to  do  and  evading  the  conse- 

335 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

quences  by  luck.  I  bet  it  had  all  blown  over  by  the 
time  you  got  back." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Rene,  "but  I  confessed,  and  no  one 
was  very  annoyed." 

He  went  round  to  Ann's  room  with  a  sinking  at 
his  heart.  She  must  be  told,  she  must  be  made  to 
understand,  and  she  never  would.  He  felt  immeasur- 
ably older  than  she,  responsible  for  her,  and  rather 
helpless.  She  was  out.  He  gazed  round  at  the  room 
and  was  touched  by  its  poverty  and  thriftlessness,  the 
cheap  little  ornaments  on  the  mantelshelf,  the  souve- 
nirs of  Margate  and  Southend,  the  cigarette  cards 
pinned  to  the  wall,  to  make,  with  a  mirror,  its  only 
ornaments.  Here  they  had  sat,  so  many  evenings,  he 
and  she,  in  a  kind  of  playing  at  happiness.  Here  they 
had  quarreled.  Between  quarreling  and  laughing  they 
had  spent  all  their  days,  laughing  into  quarrels,  quar- 
reling into  tears,  and  out  of  them  again  laughing: 
the  happy  life  of  the  poor,  the  workers,  the  thought- 
less, whom  no  care  could  subdue,  no  joy  uplift.  What 
a  relief  that  life  had  been  to  him  when  he  had -turned 
from  that  other  life,  where  all  his  qualities  were  ex- 
ploited and  thought  and  power  of  expression  were 
used  only  to  sneak  advantages,  and  even  love  and 
wedded  happiness  were  valued  only  as  possessions! 
How  it  had  stripped  him  of  all  arrogance  and  cupidity 
of  mind!  The  simple  innocence  of  those  who  sell 
themselves  for  bread,  and  know  nothing  of  the  busi- 
ness for  which  they  are  used,  and  more  despise  than 
envy  the  shows  in  the  production  of  which  more  than 
half  their  efforts  are  expended.  Ann's  scorn  of 

336 


EXPLANATION 

"ladies,"  believing  them  all  to  be  light  women,  her 
hatred  of  charity  organization  inspectors  (she  had 
routed  them  more  than  once  when  they  meddled  with 
Rita),  Insurance  Cards,  and  Old  Age  Pensions.  She 
resented  being  underpaid,  but  even  more  she  loathed 
the  spirit  which  tried  to  supplement  the  underpayment 
with  instruction  in  virtue  made  impossible  by  it,  with 
doles  and  callous  assistance.  It  had  not  escaped  her 
that  the  motor-cars  in  the  mews  cost  more  to  maintain 
than  the  income  of  any  one  of  the  families  who  lived 
above  them.  But  she  loved  her  little  bare  rooms,  and 
if  she  were  allowed  to  keep  them  and  the  happiness 
that  filled  them  she  asked  no  more.  The  brave  inde- 
pendence :  that  was  what  Rene  had  prized  in  her,  what 
was  expressed  in  her  room.  He  had  contributed  noth- 
ing to  it  but  a  little  comfort,  an  easy  chair,  a  few 
books,  and  his  pleasure  in  her.  He  knew  that  she 
treasured  that  above  everything  in  the  world,  and  he 
must  take  it  from  her.  He  was  shaken  with  cowardice 
and  dread  and  pity — by  pity  most  of  all.  That  bound 
him  to  her,  dragged  him  down.  He  had  not  expected 
it,  so  clear  had  everything  seemed  in  the  light  of  his 
healthful  experience.  And,  he  knew,  pity  from  him 
would  be  to  her  of  all  things  the  most  hateful.  He 
could  not  shake  free  of  it,  and  it  absorbed  him. 

He  heard  her  footsteps  on  the  short  flight  of  stairs. 
He  was  rilled  with  a  longing  to  escape.  With  her  hand 
on  the  door  he  lost  his  head  and  fled  into  the  inner 
room.  He  heard  her  go  to  the  fireplace  and  sit  in  the 
easy-chair.  She  sat  silently  brooding.  Then  she  heard 
him  in  the  inner  room.  She  had  heard  that  before, 

337 


[TOUNG  EARNEST 

and  he  was  never  there.  Slowly  she  came  into  the 
inner  room,  and  he  could  just  see  her  smoothing  the 
pillows  with  her  hands.  She  caught  the  sound  of 
his  breathing  and  stood  stock-still.  He  could  not 
move.  She  came  toward  him  groping  with  her  hands. 
She  touched  him. 

"Renny,  dear." 

She  was  pressed  close  to  him.  Her  arms  went  round 
his  neck. 

"I  knew  you'd  come  back." 

He  caressed  her  soothingly,  gently,  consumed  and 
burning  in  his  pity  for  her,  and  his  terror  lest  she 
should  discover  it  too  suddenly. 

He  tried  to  draw  her  into  the  outer  room,  but  she 
clung  to  him  and  kept  him  in  the  darkness,  forcing 
him  to  feel  her  animal  possession  of  him  and  hunger 
for  him.  Rage  and  the  desire  for  self-preservation 
thrust  back  his  pity  and  he  carried  her  back  to  the 
outer  room. 

Then  it  was  some  moments  before  she  could  recover 
herself.  She  stood  giggling  and  laughing  nervously, 
almost  hysterically. 

"Renny,  dear,"  she  said,  "you  did  say  once  we'd 
go  off  together.  I  want  to.  I  want  to.  I'm  sorry  I 
went  on  working.  I  oughtn't  to  have  done  that.  We 
ought  to  have  had  a  house  and  me  looking  after 
it." 

"You  would  have  been  even  more  unhappy." 

"I'm  not  unhappy,  Renny,  dear.  You've  come  back. 
And  there's  that  coming " 

("She  must  be  kept  off  that,"  he  thought.) 

338 


EXPLANATION 

"Old  Martin's  been  that  kind,"  she  said.  "He  says 
he'll  see  us  through  if  it's  money." 

"I  can  make  enough  money,"  he  replied,  and  then 
stopped,  puzzled  and  startled  by  the  malicious  pleas- 
ure that  came  into  her  eyes.  He  leaned  forward  the 
better  to  see  her,  for  the  gas  jet  was  flickering,  and 
she  turned  away  with  a  half  smile  that  was  exas- 
peratingly  silly. 

"It  isn't  money,"  he  said,  "and  you  know  it.  I've 
seen  Kilner." 

She  was  instantly  defiant  on  that. 

"Well,  and  what  had  he  to  say  for  himself?" 

"Nothing  you  would  understand." 

"Heuh !  Clever,  aren't  you,  you  two,  when  you  get 
your  heads  together." 

She  began  to  lay  supper.  "I'm  hungry,"  she  said. 
"I've  not  felt  like  eating  while  you've  been  away. 
Where  you  been?" 

"Away,"  he  answered.    "Out  of  London." 

'To  your  home?" 

"No." 

"I  thought  you'd  have  gone  to  your  home." 

"There's  nothing  to  take  me  there.  I've  been  with 
friends." 

"Women?" 

"Yes." 

She  had  nothing  to  say  to  that.    He  went  on: 

"One  of  them  I  knew  years  ago,  when  I  was  a 
boy." 

"That's  not  so  long  ago.     A  lady?" 

"Yes." 

339 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"A  lady  wouldn't  take  up  with  you  now." 

"She  works  for  her  living." 

"The  same  as  me  ?" 

"The  same  as  you." 

"Well.     What  of  it?" 

"We  went  down  into  the  country,  she  and  I  and  her 
friend." 

"I  don't  want  to  know  about  that." 

"But  I  want  to  tell  you." 

She  stood  by  the  table  and  her  fingers  drew  patterns 
on  the  cloth. 

"What  is  it  you  want  to  tell  me?" 

"I'm  in  love  with  her." 

Ann's  lips  set  in  a  hard  line,  and  her  eyes  narrowed 
and  her  brows  scowled. 

"Did  you  come  back  to  tell  me  that?" 

"Yes." 

"Why?    Did  you  think  I'd  want  to  know?" 

"I'm  so  sorry." 

"Sorry,  you  devil?  You  came  down  to  torment 
me.  You'd  better  go,  d'ye  hear." 

Rene  could  not  move.  He  was  fascinated  by  the 
suffering  in  the  little  creature,  melted  and  weakened 
by  his  pity  for  her. 

"You'd  better  go,"  she  repeated.  "And  tell  her 
you  left  a  poor  girl  hating  you,  and  see  how  she'll  like 
that.  Sorry!  That's  what  you  say  when  you  step 
on  a  fellow's  foot  in  a  bus.  Sorry !  When  you  got  a 
girl  body  and  soul,  and  you  throw  her  away  like  dirt." 

"I  came  back." 

"Yes.    To  tell  me  that.    To  tell  me  I  was  dirt,  to 

340 


EXPLANATION 

throw  me  down  for  her  to  walk  on  so's  she  shan't  get 
her  feet  wet." 

She  changed  her  tone  and  asked  quietly: 

"You  knew  her  before  me?" 

"Long  years  before." 

"Before  that  other  one  as  you  married?" 

"Before  that." 

"And  she's  pretty  and  has  pretty  things?" 

"I've  told  her  about  you." 

"Oh!  and  she  sent  you  back!  Thank  you  for 
nothing." 

"She  did  not.  I  came  of  my  own  accord.  I  couldn't 
leave  you  like  that." 

"I'd  rather  you  did.  I'd  rather  you  did.  My  Christ! 
I  can't  bear  to  see  you  sitting  there  and  talking  and 
talking- 
He  rose  to  his  feet:  "I  can't  leave  you,  Ann.  I 
couldn't  leave  you  like  you  are.  ..." 

She  leaned  across  the  table  and  put  out  her  hand. 

"Look  here,  Renny.    D'you  love  me?" 

"Yes." 

"Heh!"  She  gave  a  snarl  of  incredulity.  "Heh! 
See  here!  D'you  want  me!" 

Her  eyes  were  staring  at  him  cunningly,  invitingly. 
He  saw  that  she  half  believed  his  weakness  would  lead 
him  to  evasion  or  consent  to  her  will.  He  waited,  and 
made  her  repeat  her  question. 

"D'you  want  me?" 

"I  want  your  happiness,"  he  said.  "I  don't  believe 
you  will  find  it  in  me." 

She  was  inarticulate.     Her  eyes  closed  and  she 

341 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

swayed.  She  jerked  her  head  toward  the  door.  He 
took  that  for  a  sign  that  he  was  to  go,  and  moved 
round  the  table.  She  was  before  him,  crouching,  bar- 
ring the  way.  Strangled  sobbing  sounds  came  from 
her  throat.  He  stretched  out  his  hands  to  implore 
her,  to  tell  her  of  his  almost  intolerable  pity.  She 
sprang  at  him.  She  had  a  knife  in  her  hand.  He 
saw  it  flash,  felt  a  burning  pain  in  his  breast,  and 
fell.  He  could  see  her  face  twisted  in  an  agony  of 
fear  close  to  his.  Spittle  from  her  lips  fell  upon  his 
cheek.  Her  hands  were  busy  at  his  breast.  He  lost 
consciousness. 


V 

THRIGSBY 

Nothing  I'll  bear  from  thee 
But  nakedness,  thou  detestable  town! 

THAT  was  an  appalling  night.  Rene  lay  with  his 
wound  roughly  staunched.  Ann  crouched  in  the 
darkness  by  the  bedside,  fondling  his  hand,  clinging  to 
him,  occasionally  weeping.  Both  watched  the  light 
come  creeping  over  the  roofs  and  chimneys.  Neither 
could  say  a  word.  Their  eyes  met,  and  hers  were  fixed 
hungrily  on  his  face  like  a  dog's  that  has  been  whipped 
for  fighting.  She  looked  so  scared  that  he  desired 
only  to  reassure  her. 

"Ann,"  he  said. 

She  kissed  his  hand  and  fondled  it,  and  pressed  it 
to  her  cheek,  and  bathed  it  in  her  tears  and  kissed  away 
the  tears. 

"You'd  better  fetch  Kilner,"  he  said.  "He'll  know 
what  to  do." 

"Don't  let  him  know  how  it  happened.  Don't  let 
him  know  I  did  it." 

"No.    Go  and  fetch  him." 

"Oh !  I  thought  you  was  dead.  I  thought  you  was 

343 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

dead.     Oh!  Renny,  dear,  what  should  I  ha'  done  if 
you'd  been  dead,  my  dear?" 

"Go  and  fetch  Kilner.    He'll  tell  us  what  to  do." 

She  brought  Kilner  and  left  them  together.  Rene 
made  a  clumsy  attempt  to  shield  Ann  in  a  very  inco- 
herent account  of  the  affair.  Kilner  saw  through  it 
but  acquiesced  in  the  intention. 

"Can  you  move?"  he  asked. 

"I  think  so." 

"Can  you  walk  to  a  doctor's?  There's  one  just 
round  the  corner.  Better  than  having  him  here.  Some 
doctors  talk.  You'll  be  better  out  of  this." 

Leaning  on  Kilner's  arm,  Rene  managed  to  reach 
the  doctor's,  but  there  he  fainted.  Kilner  invented  a 
story  of  an  early  morning  street  attack,  and  the  doc- 
tor, who  was  not  interested,  swallowed  it.  He  patched 
Rene  up,  gave  him  a  prescription,  and  told  him  to 
call  again  that  day.  Rene  disliked  the  man  so  much 
that  he  refused  inwardly  ever  to  go  near  him  again. 
Between  them  they  had  half  the  fee,  and  promised  to 
send  round  the  rest. 

Kilner  made  Rene  comfortable  in  his  room  and  was 
then  sent  off  to  find  Miss  Cleethorpe. 

Lotta  came  at  once.  She  and  Kilner  liked  each 
other.  Kilner  had  begun  to  see  the  affair  in  a  hu- 
morous light.  Anything  to  do  with  Rene  was  to  him 
never  very  far  short  of  absurdity. 

"I  wish  I'd  thought  of  it  like  that  before,"  he  said. 
"I'd  never  have  let  him  go  to  her.  I  might  have  known 
he  would  make  a  mess  of  it.  He  was  simply  bursting 
with  exaltation,  and  when  he's  like  that  it  never  occurs 

344 


THRIGSBY 

to  him  that  other  people  may  have  a  different  view.  I 
half  believe  he  expected  Ann  to  share  his  enthusiasm 
for  the  other  lady " 

Lotta  could  not  help  laughing,  though  she  protested : 
"What  a  shame!" 

"I  can't  help  it,"  said  Kilner,  "other  people's  love 
affairs  always  are  comic,  and  Fourmy — well,  he  is  sim- 
ply inappropriate  in  a  community  of  creatures  who 
live  by  cunning." 

"You've  hit  it,"  replied  Lotta.  "I've  been  trying  to 
understand  what  it  was  made  him  so  exceptional. 

Creatures  who  live  by  cunning Thank  you, 

Mr.  Kilner." 

"All  artists  are  like  that.  Cunning  is  no  use  in  the 
pursuit  of  art.  But  they  are  insulated  by  their  work  as 
ordinary  people  are  by  convention  and  habit.  No  ar- 
tist takes  personal  relationships  seriously.  They  hap- 
pen. He  handles  them  well  or  makes  a  mess  of  them. 
It  does  not  greatly  matter.  The  ordinary  being  cannot 
appreciate  any  personal  relationship  until  it  is  con- 
ventionalized and  stripped  of  its  vigor  and  value. 
Well — you  have  seen  your  Fourmy  in  action." 

"And  well  worth  seeing  too." 

Kilner  told  her  what  he  could  make  of  the  new 
disaster,  and  how  Ann  had  hated  him  and  destroyed 
his  work. 

"I  imagine,"  he  said,  "that  the  same  blind  instinct 
operated  against  Fourmy.  He's  creative  also  in  a 
way.  My  pictures,  his  life,  his  precious  romantic  life, 
are  both  things  slowly  shaped  out  of  chaos,  and  the 
creative  process  in  a  man  is  absolutely  indifferent  to 

345 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

the  stupid  security  most  women  value.  Ann  did  her 
ridiculous  little  best  to  stop  it  in  both  of  us." 

"Poor  girl,"  said  Lotta,  "I  can  imagine  the  two 
of  you  driving  her  distracted.  After  all,  what  she  was 
going  through  was  important  to  her." 

"But  only  to  her.  She  wanted  it  to  be  important  for 
him.  It  couldn't  be:  it  was  quite  meaningless." 

"Nature  is  cruelly  indifferent." 

"If  she  weren't,"  said  Kilner,  "we  should  never  have 
developed  intelligence,  let  alone  imagination." 

"What  are  we  to  do  with  them?" 

"I'll  look  after  Fourmy  if  you'll  take  charge  of  Ann. 
Only,  remember,  you  are  not  supposed  to  know  that 
she  did  it,  and,  please,  I  have  told  you  nothing  about 
my  picture." 

The  caution  was  unnecessary,  for  Ann  tumbled  out  a 
full  confession  as  she  sank  into  the  comfort  of  Lotta's 
kindness.  She  guessed  at  once  who  Lotta  was,  but  was 
too  exhausted  for  resentment.  She  had  dragged  her- 
self off  to  her  work  in  order  to  fill  in  the  creeping 
hours. 

Lotta  said  she  was  a  friend  of  Rene's,  and  wished 
to  help,  and  asked  if  there  was  anything  she  could  do. 
Ann  burst  into  tears  and  rolled  her  head  from  side  to 
side,  and  cried: 

"Oh !  I  wish  I  was  dead,  I  do.  I  nearly  did  myself 
in  last  night  when  he  lay  there  in  the  dark  not  saying 
a  word.  I  wish  I  had — I  wish  I  had.  I  never  been  so 
miserable.  ..." 

Lotta  comforted  her  as  best  she  could,  clumsily 

346 


THRIGSBY 

dropping  a  word  in  here  and  there  as  Ann  poured  out 
her  confused  narrative. 
Ann  kept  on  saying: 
"He  ought  to  have  gone  if  he  wanted  to  go." 

"But  he  couldn't  leave  you  like  that " 

"It  was  seeing  him  again  done  it.    I  couldn't  bear  it, 
seeing  him  and  knowing  he  was  wanting  to  go." 

"He  was  wanting  you  to  feel  that — that  he  was  not 
going  out  of  indifference  to  you." 

"He  doesn't  want  me.    He  said  that." 
"My  dear  child,  you  mustn't  think  about  it  like  that. 
You  must  see  that  it  is  ended  now." 

"I'll  never  care  for  anybody  again — not  like  that." 
"Don't  make  things  harder  for  yourself.     How  do 
you  know?" 

"You're  only  young  once." 
"Love  is  stronger  when  youth  is  gone." 
Ann  believed  that.  She  wanted  to  believe  in  Lotta, 
and  she  sat  very  quietly,  almost  like  a  child,  while  the 
quiet,  gentle  woman  tried  to  explain  to  her  that  Rene 
had  taken  nothing  away,  that  their  love  must  die  for 
all  it  had  lacked,  that  there  was  no  disgrace  in  a  failure 
to  bring  a  love  to  life,  that  it  was  happening  every- 
where, every  day,  and  that  a  dead  love  was  the  most 
horrible  of  prisons.  And,  said  Lotta,  if  a  child  was  to 
be  born,  it  were  better  not  to  bring  it  into  such  cap- 
tivity, better  not  to  have  the  joy  and  beauty  of  mother- 
hood spoiled  by  jealousy  and  disappointment  in  the 
failure  of  love.  Ann  wept  anew.  People  were  so 
kind,  she  said :  there  was  Old  Martin,  and  now  there 
was  Lotta ;  and  she  had  only  dreaded  her  loneliness  of 

347 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

being  left  alone  to  face  "that."  Lotta  said  there  was 
no  question  of  being  left  alone.  If  Ann  liked,  she 
could  come  to  her  hostel  as  maid,  and  when  her  time 
came  she  could  go  out  to  the  country. 

"I  think,"  said  Lotta,  "that  all  children  ought  to  be 
born  and  bred  in  the  country.  Don't  you?" 

"The  mews,"  replied  Ann,  "is  not  much  of  a  place 
for  them." 

She  did  not  quite  like  the  idea  of  being  "in  service," 
but  Lotta  explained  that  it  did  not  necessarily  mean  for 
always.  Once  the  baby  was  born  and  provided  for, 
Ann  could  go  back  to  her  factory  and  take  up  her  life, 
if  she  wished,  where  it  was  before  Rene  came  into  it. 

"But  I'll  always  want  to  hear  about  him,"  said  Ann. 

"Of  course.    He'll  always  want  to  hear  about  you." 

"And  see  him." 

"He'll  want  to  see  you  too." 

So  it  was  arranged,  and  Ann  promised  to  be  at  the 
hostel  next  morning. 

When  Lotta  had  gone,  she  sat  down  and  wrote : 

"DEAR  RENNY, — I  do  want  you  to  forgive  me.  I  have 
been  awful,  but  not  without  excuse.  I  do  like  Miss  Lotta. 
She's  been  an  angel  to  me  and  made  me  feel  awfuller.  I'm 
going  to  her.  A  letter  for  you  to  say  you  'ad  come  into 
some  money.  I  tore  it  up  when  I  first  began  to  feel  bad 
toward  you.  I  don't  feel  bad  any  more. — Your  loving 
ANN." 

This  confession  reached  Rene  at  the  same  time  as 
a  letter  from  his  brother  George  conveying  the  same 

348 


THRIGSBY 

news.  The  attorney  in  Edinburgh  had  written  to  say 
he  had  no  reply  from  Mr.  Rene  Fourmy,  and  to  ask 
for  information  as  to  his  whereabouts.  "This,"  said 
George,  "has  been  a  bit  of  a  shock  to  us.  We'd  counted 
on  something  from  the  old  lady.  However,  it  makes 
a  difference  to  you.  If  you  feel  inclined  to  come  up 
and  see  us  I'll  be  glad  to  have  you.  I  suppose  you'll 
give  up  the  street-slogging.  The  old  man  has  been 
in  London.  Did  you  see  him?" 

Rene  announced  his  intention  of  going  to  Thrigsby. 
His  mind  was  going  back  and  back  over  his  life  in  the 
attempt  to  understand  it.  If  he  could  see  George  and 
his  mother,  he  felt  and  hoped  that  he  might  be  able  to 
follow  up  the  threads  placed  in  his  hands  by  his  chance 
encounter  with  his  father. 

A  day  or  two  later  saw  him  arriving  at  the  Albert 
Station  with  his  arm  in  a  sling.  George  was  there  to 
meet  him. 

"Hullo,  old  sport,"  he  said,  "been  in  the  wars?" 

Rene  told  the  lie  invented  by  Kilner  for  the  doctor. 

"By  Jove,"  said  George,  "you  have  been  roughing 
it.  I'll  tell  that  to  the  youngsters  in  our  office  when 
they  get  dotty  about  Canada  and  the  Wild  West.  Wild 
West  of  London,  eh?"  and  he  chuckled  at  his  own 
joke. 

"Elsie's  quite  excited,"  he  said,  as  they  boarded 
the  Hog  Lane  tram. 

"And  mother?"  asked  Rene. 

"Well.  Hum.  You'll  find  a  difference  in  the 
mother." 

349 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

Rene  was  struck  by  many  changes.  New  ware- 
houses, new  rows  of  shops,  some  attempt  to  bring  dis- 
tinction into  the  architecture  of  the  city,  though,  for 
the  most  part,  nothing  but  ostentation  was  attained. 
They  passed  the  university.  There  were  new  build- 
ings there,  more  like  an  insurance  office  than  ever. 
Streets  that  he  remembered  as  respectable  and  pros- 
perous had  become  slums  swarming  with  grimy  chil- 
dren. A  great  piece  had  been  taken  out  of  Potter's 
Park  for  the  building  of  a  hideous  art  gallery.  The 
trams  now  passed  down  Hog  Lane  West,  with  the 
result  that  most  of  the  houses  had  apartment  cards 
in  their  fanlights.  George  had  moved  from  The  Nest 
into  168.  He  could  get  a  larger  house  for  the  same 
rent.  His  house  was  exactly  the  same  as  their  old 
home.  It  gave  Rene  a  depressing  idea  that  nothing  had 
changed.  George  was  fatter :  Elsie  thinner.  They  had 
four  children. 

George  was  in  the  same  office,  and,  as  he  said,  had 
flung  away  ambition :  too  many  children  to  take  risks, 
and  after  all  there  was  nothing  in  the  small  firm  now. 
The  one  or  two  connections  you  depended  on  might  go 
bust  any  day.  It  needed  enormous  capital  to  stand 
the  fluctuations  of  prices.  He  had  got  a  rise  by  pre- 
tending to  go  and  was  quite  content.  He  played  bowls 
in  the  summer  and  bridge  in  the  winter.  And  Elsie? 
What  with  the  house  and  the  mother  she  had  plenty 
to  do,  plenty  to  do. 

As  Rene  walked  along  the  passage  he  felt  uncannily 
certain  that  he  would  find  his  mother  sitting  by  the 
fireplace  knitting.  And  it  was  so.  She  raised  her 

350 


THRIGSBY 

eyes  and  looked  at  him  with  timid  anxiety,  held  out 
her  cheek  to  be  kissed,  went  on  knitting,  and  said : 

"Now  sit  down  and  give  an  account  of  yourself." 

He  edited  his  experiences,  and  she  listened  without 
interest.  Most  of  his  talk  was  of  Kilner. 

"Artists  are  very  immoral  men,  aren't  they?" 

Rene  shrugged. 

"It  depends,"  he  said,  "on  what  you  mean  by  moral- 
ity." 

"There  are  rules,"  said  she,  "and  commandments." 

"My  friend  has  rules,"  he  replied,  "rather  good  ones. 
He  dislikes  doing  anything  which  interferes  with  his 
power  to  paint." 

"To  me  that  sounds  very  selfish." 

"I  don't  think  we  can  argue  about  that,  mother." 

"No.     I  suppose  you  made  very  little  money." 

"Three  pounds  a  week." 

"I  suppose  you  could  do  with  that,  with  only  your- 
self to  keep.  Though  it  seems  a  pity,  considering  the 
amount  of  time  and  money  spent  on  your  education." 

Was  it  his  mother  speaking?  What  had  happened 
to  her?  Whence  had  come  the  dry  hardness  in  her 
voice?  Why  were  her  eyes  so  dead?  They  used  to 
steal  quick  little  glances  when  she  spoke.  Now  she 
only  stared  listlessly.  A  home-coming?  This  for  a 
home?  In  the  house  next  door  there  had  been  some 
stirring  of  life:  the  night  when  he  had  returned  home 
from  Scotland:  the  strange  days  after  his  father's 
restoration. 

The  windows  of  the  room  were  shut.  Rene  felt 
stifled.  He  made  some  excuse  and  went  away  out  of 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

the  house,  and  roamed  through  the  familiar  streets. 
There  were  many  houses  empty :  the  gardens,  some  of 
which  had  once  been  trim,  were  now  unkempt.  The 
whole  district  was  dismal  and  devitalized.  Only  the 
red  trams  clanging  and  clanking  down  the  cobbled 
streets  made  any  stir  and  gaiety. 

He  found  himself  presently  in  Gait's  Park.  The  lit- 
tle pink  brick  houses  had  invaded  it.  Many  of  the  big 
houses  were  pulled  down:  others  were  being  demol- 
ished, and  only  jagged  walls  and  gaping  windows  were 
left.  On  the  site  of  the  Brocks'  house  stood  a  little 
red-brick  chapel  outside  which  were  announcements 
in  Welsh  and  English.  That  gave  him  a  shock.  Some 
of  the  past  life  had  been  brushed  away.  He  disliked 
the  idea  of  its  room  being  usurped  by  a  chapel,  a  place 
of  Christian  worship.  He  did  not  know  why  he  dis- 
liked this  idea  so  much,  but  it  was  connected  vaguely 
with  the  image  of  his  mother  sitting  in  that  room, 
knitting  and  talking  in  an  empty  voice,  and  cKnging 
obstinately  to  rules  of  conduct. 

At  the  other  end  of  Gait's  Park  he  came  on  a  new 
street,  flung  straight  across  what  he  remembered  as 
fields.  Following  its  dreary  length,  he  found  himself 
near  the  Smallmans'  house.  It  was  now  completely 
shut  in  with  little  pink  brick  houses.  He  turned  in  at 
the  gate,  rang  at  the  bell  and  asked  the  maid  if  he  could 
see  the  Professor.  He  was  left  waiting  in  the  hall 
where  he  had  seen  Linda's  green  parasol.  Here,  too, 
there  was  no  change.  The  Professor  came  out  looking 
very  mysterious.  He  took  a  hat  down,  seized  Rene 
by  the  arm  and  led  him  out  into  the  street. 

352 


THRIGSBY 

"Well,  well,"  he  said.  "I'm  glad  to  see  you,  glad 
to  see  you.  How  are  you?" 

"Very  well."  Rene  felt  inclined  to  laugh.  Clearly 
the  Professor  was  trying  not  to  hurt  his  feelings  and 
to  disguise  the  fact  that  he  did  not  think  him  fit  to 
enter  his  house,  that  temple  of  domesticity. 

"Tell  me  about  yourself.  One  doesn't  lose  interest, 
you  know." 

This  time  Rene  did  not  edit  his  experiences. 

"I  had  heard  stories,"  said  the  Professor.  "I  was 
reluctant  to  believe  them." 

"Why?" 

"Well — er —   You  know — one  expects " 

"That  every  man  will  do  his  duty." 

"It  is  hardly  a  subject  for  satire,"  said  the  Pro- 
fessor. 

Rene  exploded : 

"Good  God!  What  else  is  it  a  subject  for?  Eng- 
land expects  ?  Does  the  whole  duty  of  man  consist  in 
self-mutilation?  Why,  then,  the  noblest  man  is  he 
who  shirks  every  responsibility,  let  his  mind  rot  and 
his  feelings  wither,  so  that  he  can  attain  a  devilish 
efficiency  at  the  job  into  which  he  tumbles  before  he 
has  begun  to  develop  enough  to  know  what  he  can 
do.  These  are  your  successful  men,  your  pundits,  your 
Lord  Mayors,  your  merchant  princes,  your  politi- 
cians  " 

"My  dear  Fourmy,  I  think  you  should  recollect  that 
you  hardly  gave  yourself  time  to  recognize  what 
Thrigsby  stands  for,  the  greatest  industrial  center  in 
the  world." 

353 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"I  had  time  enough  to  realize  what  it  has  done  for 
my  father,  my  mother,  my  brother,  and  myself." 

"Two  wrongs  do  not  make  a  right,  and  I  do  not 
think  you  set  about  remedying  matters  in  the  right 
way.  You  had  every  opportunity  here.  You  had 
escaped  the  pressure  of  industrialism.  You  had  good 
brains." 

"Brains!"  cried  Rene.  "I  had  escaped  from  in- 
dustrialism only  to  talk  about  it." 

"We  are  doing  useful  work.  The  defects  of  the 
system  are  slowly  being  recognized  as  a  result  of  our 
investigations." 

"Can't  you  realize  them  without  investigation? 
Aren't  they  as  plain  as  the  nose  on  your  face?" 

"You  can't  find  a  remedy  without  investigation. 
That  leads  to  mere  sentimental  socialism.  But  why 
need  we  quarrel  about  that?  You  didn't  like  the 
work.  I  hope  you  found  more  satisfaction  in  your 
vagabondage." 

"London  is  just  as  bad,  rather  worse,  because  the 
wickedness  of  it  all  is  glossed  over  with  a  kind  of 
boast  fulness.  Here  you  either  make  money  or  you 
don't.  There,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  your  only  chance 
is  to  spend  money:  not  that  I  saw  much  of  that  ex- 
cept from  the  outside ;  still  I  did  see  all  sorts  and  kinds 
of  people,  and  you  can  make  rough  conclusions  about 
them." 

"You  don't  mind  my  suggesting  that  you  were 
hardly  in  a  condition  to  make  impartial  observations  ?" 

"We  don't  seem  able  to  use  the  same  terms.  You 
still  think  I  was  a  fool  not  to  stay  in  my  nice  little 

354 


THRIGSBY 

home,  with  my  nice  little  job  and  my  nice  little  in- 
come." 

"I  don't  judge  you.  I  only  say  that  if  everybody 
were  to  do  the  same " 

"I  only  wish  more  people  would.  There'd  soon  be 
an  end  of  congestion.  I  only  came  round  to-night  be- 
cause I  couldn't  stand  the  sight  of  my  brother  settling 
down  to  his  nice  little  home  and  my  mother  fast  freez- 
ing into  a  nice  old  lady — and  then  I  find  you  terrified 
lest  I  should  enter  and  pollute  your  nice  little  home. 
I  tell  you,  what  I  have  seen  to-day  has  settled  me.  I 
came  up  here  in  a  muddle  about  it  all,  half  feeling 
that  I  had  made  an  ass  of  myself,  but  I'm  absolutely 
certain  now " 

"But  a  man  must  think  of  his  wife  and  children, 
and,  indeed,  you  are  unjust.  I  have  no  fear  of  your 
disturbing  my  household.  We  should  be  only  too  glad 
to  see  you,  only  it  happened,  if  you  must  know,  that 
my  wife  was  expecting  Linda  Brock.  She  uses  her 
own  name  now." 

Rene  gave  a  shout  of  laughter. 

"But  I'd  like  to  see  her.     How  is  she?" 

"Her  mother  died  six  months  ago  and  left  her  a 
great  deal  of  money,  a  fortune.  We  had  no  idea  she 
was  so  rich.  Linda  wrote  some  plays,  you  know.  She 
has  bought  the  theater  and  presented  it  to  the  Players. 
I  am  one  of  the  trustees.  Thrigsby  is  very  proud  of 
the  theater— 

"It  used  to  be  music  when  I  was  young,"  said  Rene, 
"and  the  orchestra  was  always  in  debt." 

"Art,"  said  the  Professor,  "cannot  be  expected  to 

355 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

pay  for  itself.  We  are  running  the  theater  to  a  certain 
extent  in  connection  with  the  university " 

He  had  assumed  the  voice  in  which  he  lectured. 
Rene  cut  him  short: 

"I'd  like  to  see  Linda.  Will  you  take  me  back  with 
you." 

"I— er " 

"You  needn't  thrust  me  on  her.  Just  ask  her  if 
she'd  like  to  see  me,  and  come  out  and  tell  me :  yes  or 
no.  After  all,  if  it  comes  to  that,  we're  still  married. 
I  believe,  by  the  brutal  laws  of  the  country,  I  could 
insist  on  seeing  her  whether  she  liked  it  or  not.  You 
might  tell  her  that  I  have  come  into  some  money 
also." 

"Really?     I'm  so  glad." 

"Hurrah!"  cried  Rene,  "you  think  I'll  have  to  live 
up  to  it  and  settle  down." 

"It  would  certainly  be  a  splendid  thing  if " 

The  Professor's  whole  attitude  toward  him  was 
changed.  Already,  it  was  clear,  he  was  beginning  to 
plan  a  grand  scene  of  reconciliation,  a  reformed  Rene, 
a  forgiving  Linda,  the  Smallman  family  in  the  back- 
ground, symbolical  of  Impregnable  Matrimony.  Rene 
caught  the  hint  and  his  mind  played  with  it  and  blew  it 
out  into  a  grotesque.  It  gave  him  so  much  pleasure 
that  he  chuckled  and  said: 

"It  won't  do,  you  know.  We  couldn't  come  together 
again  without  a  scandal." 

The  Professor  was  so  intent  on  his  own  thoughts 
that  he  did  not  notice  the  savage  irony  of  the  remark. 
He  said : 

356 


THRIGSBY 


"It  would  soon  die  down.' 
"Sooner  than  the  other?" 
"Well !" 


"I've  got  you  there,"  observed  Rene.  "It  wasn't 
fair  though.  I  hadn't  the  slightest  intention  of  doing 
any  such  thing." 

"Why,  then ?" 

"Why  do  I  want  to  see  her  ?  I  don't  know.  I  want 
to.  Isn't  that  reason  enough?" 

They  had  returned  to  the  house. 

"You  just  ask  her.  Tell  her  I'm  in  Thrigsby  for  a 
few  days  and  would  like  to  see  her.  If  she  doesn't 
wish  it,  don't  worry.  I'll  wait  ten  minutes." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  Professor,  not  altogether- giv- 
ing up  hope,  "I'll  tell  her,  but  the  way  you  talk  of  it 
seems  to  me  almost  indecent." 

He  let  himself  in  at  the  front  door,  and  in  ten  min- 
utes was  out  again. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  "she  will  see  you.  ...  If  you 
don't  mind,  my  wife  has  gone  up  to  her  room." 

"I  wonder,"  thought  Rene,  "what  they  would 
make  of  Ann.  They  wouldn't  mind  my  leaving 
her." 

He  felt  rather  nervous  as  he  reached  the  threshold 
of  the  study,  but  stiffened  himself  for  the  plunge. 
The  door  opened  and  he  found  himself  shaking  Linda 
warmly  by  the  hand  and  asking  after  her  health,  and 
explaining  how  he  came  to  be  in  Thrigsby.  Linda  was 
noticeably  plumper,  rounder,  and  more  solid.  He  could 
see  no  charm  in  her  and  thought  her  unsuitably 
dressed,  tactlessly,  provincially.  On  the  whole,  he 

357 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

liked  her.  The  handshake  was  firm,  her  eyes  were 
frank. 

"It  was  nice  of  you  to  come  and  see  me,"  she  said. 
"So  much  better  to  have  no  nonsense  about  it." 

"If  you  like,"  said  the  Professor,  "I— I— will " 

Linda  appealed  to  Rene. 

"Oh,  no.  I've  nothing  to  say.  I  only  wanted  to 
know  that  there  was  to  be  no  nonsense  between  us. 
I'm  very  glad.  I  wish  we  could  have  arrived  at  that 
sooner,  but  I  suppose  that  was  impossible." 

Linda  smiled : 

"You've  changed,  Rene.  That  would  have  been 
blasphemy  to  you  a  few  years  ago.  You  hated  coming 
to  your  senses." 

"I  should  think  so,"  said  the  Professor. 

"You're  not  going  to  stay  in  Thrigsby?"  asked 
Linda. 

"No.  That's  impossible,  even  if  I  wanted  to.  We 
should  be  crossing  each  other's  tracks.  Not  that  I 

should  mind  that,  but Well,  it  wouldn't  do,  would 

it?" 

"No.  I  prefer  being  without  a  husband.  Really, 
for  an  active  woman  it  seems  to  me  to  be  the  ideal 
condition.  She  has  a  status  and  no  risk." 

The  Professor  sat  bolt  upright: 

"What  do  you  mean,  Linda?" 

"I  won't  insist  on  the  advantages  if  it  shocks  you, 
Phil.  Rene  understands  me." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Rene,  "Linda  means  she  can  lose 
her  head  without  any  danger  of  getting  married." 

The  Professor  exploded: 

358 


THRIGSBY 

"I  never  heard  of  anything  so — so  abominable." 

"But  I  did  mean  that,"  said  Linda.  "Women  do 
lose  their  heads,  you  know,  even  when  they  are  mar- 
ried. Ask  Freda.  Don't  look  so  hurt.  She  and  I 
were  talking  it  over  yesterday,  and  we  agreed  that  the 
law  was  so  horrid  that  all  I  could  do  was  to  disre- 
gard it.  And  if  Rene  is  willing  that  is  what  I  propose 
doing.  You  shall  represent  the  world  at  large.  You 
do  represent  its  opinion.  You  know " 

"I  do  not." 

Linda  passed  over  the  interruption: 

"You  are  the  world  at  large  and  I  say  to  you :  'This 
man  is  no  longer  my  husband.'  No  more  than  that 
should  be  necessary.  You  don't  want  any  more  than 
that,  do  you,  Rene?" 

"Even  that  seems  to  me  a  needless  statement  of  fact, 
but  perhaps  I'm  extreme." 

The  Professor  rose  and  stood  with  his  back  to  the 
fireplace :  "All  this,"  he  said,  "is  extremely  distaste- 
ful. You  are  making  a  mock  of  marriage." 

Said  Rene: 

"We  know  more  about  it  than  you.  We've  tried 
disruption  and  you  haven't.  We're  both  the  better  for 
it.  The  fact  is,  there  is  no  such  thing  as  marriage. 
There  are  marriages,  and  precious  few  of  them. 
Yours,  no  doubt,  is  one  of  the  few." 

The  Professor  was  mollified,  swallowed  the  ha- 
rangue he  had  prepared,  and  sat  down  again. 

Rene  took  Linda  to  her  house  in  a  remote  suburb. 
She  said: 

359 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"You  know  I  quite  dreaded  meeting  you  again.  I 
always  had  a  feeling  I  should.  The  poor  dear  Pro- 
fessor was  quite  disappointed  because  we  didn't  make 
a  scene." 

"Oh,  he  didn't  mind  once  we  made  it  quite  clear 
that  we  were  casting  no  shadow  of  doubt  upon  the 
sanctity  of  his  own  domestic  happiness.  They're  all 
like  that." 

"I'm  sure  he's  quite  convinced  that  you  have  be- 
come very  wicked.  Have  you?" 

"No.     Strict  monogamist." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"One  wife  at  a  time." 

Linda  laughed  at  him.  "You  always  were  uncom- 
promising." 

Her  laughter  grated  on  Rene.  He  had  a  revulsion 
of  feeling  against  her.  She  was,  he  realized,  and  al- 
ways had  been,  cynical. 

At  her  gate  she  held  his  hand  for  a  long  time,  and 
asked  him  if  he  would  not  come  and  see  her  again. 

"I  think  not,"  he  said. 

"I  wish  you  would.  We  might  be  such  friends. 
And  you  have  become  so  interesting." 

"I  think  not,"  he  repeated.     "Any  friendship  we 

might  have  would  only  be  an "     He  could  not 

find  the  word  and  stopped  rather  foolishly.  He  could 
not  move  until  he  had  found  it.  So  they  stood  there 
hand  in  hand  waiting  in  a  ridiculous  and  empty  si- 
lence. 

"Would  be  what?"  she  asked  in  irritation. 

He  found  the  word. 

360 


THRIGSBY 

"An  impertinence." 

She  shook  his  hand  from  hers  almost  angrily  and 
walked  away. 

He  knew  then  why  he  had  come  to  Thrigsby.  It  was 
to  make  a  clean  cut  with  her.  That  achieved,  there 
was  nothing  more  in  the  grim  city  of  his  youth  to  keep 
him. 

\ 


VI 
THE  COMFORT  OF  RELIGION 

Quoi !  Dieu  me  punirait  eternellement  de  m'etre  livre  a 
des  passions  qu'il  m'a  donnees? 

THERE  might  be  nothing  to  keep  him,  but  yet 
he  stayed  five  days  longer.  For  one  thing 
George's  children  were  amusing  and  a  profitable  study. 
They  had  discovered  that  they  had  only  to  lie  to  their 
parents  to  keep  them  quiet,  and,  as  lying  was  ex- 
pected of  them,  and  made  things  comfortable,  they  saw 
no  harm  in  it.  For  the  rest  they  did  as  they  pleased 
and  amused  themselves.  Little  George  was  the  very 
spit  of  his  grandfather  and  a  great  spinner  of  yarns. 
Rene  told  him  one  morning  to  ask  his  mother  if  he 
could  go  out  with  him.  Off  trotted  the  boy,  to  return 
in  a  moment  with  a  detailed  account  of  the  conversa- 
tion he  had  had.  It  transpired  subsequently  that  Elsie 
was  out  at  the  time.  Rene  told  her.  She  said : 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do  about  the  child.  He  has 
such  an  imagination." 

"I  prefer  to  call  that  invention.  Imagination  is  the 
one  quality  in  you  that  appreciates  truth.  I  should 
begin  if  I  were  you  by  satisfying  his  curiosity.  Tell 
him  the  truth  about  anything  he  wants  to  know." 

362 


THE  COMFORT  OF  RELIGION 

"But  he  wants  to  know  such  awful  things." 

"What  awful  things?" 

"Well,  about  me  and  George." 

"It's  hard  to  put  a  lie  straight  once  you've  told  it. 
It  is  terribly  easy  to  lose  your  respect  for  your 
parents." 

"Oh,  but  little  George  loves  us." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"He  says  so  nearly  every  night." 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Rene,  "people  believe  only  what 
they  like  to  believe." 

Elsie  was  rather  ruffled: 

"After  all,  they're  our  children." 

"Certainly.  You'll  find  out  what  they  think  of  it 
soon  enough." 

It  was  interesting  to  watch  the  processes  which  went 
to  make  up  the  fool's  paradise  that  George  and  Elsie, 
in  common  with  their  kind,  called  Home,  the  worship 
of  lip-virtue,  the  constant  practice  of  mean  little  sub- 
terfuges, George  dodging  Elsie's  interest  and  suspicion 
of  himself,  she  his  of  her,  and  the  children,  where 
necessary,  contributing  to  the  comedy  and,  for  the 
rest,  living  thoroughly,  selfishly,  and  callously  in  their 
own  pursuits. 

Rene  found  that  as  long  as  he  would  let  George  talk 
about  bridge,  bowls,  and  business,  or  splutter  abuse  of 
Radical  legislation,  and  as  long  as  he  allowed  Elsie  to 
chatter  of  the  neighbors  and  children  and  music-halls 
and  clothes,  they  were  both  quite  happy. 

With  his  mother  it  was  otherwise.  She  was  uneasy 
in  his  presence  and  they  could  hardly  talk  at  all,  except 

363 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

about  their  relations,  the  rich  Fourmys,  and  the  shabby 
tricks  they  had  done ;  but  after  a  while  Rene  became 
aware  that  they  were  holding  a  stealthy  converse,  an 
undercurrent  to  the  words  they  used.  He  tried  all 
sorts  of  devices  to  bring  it  to  the  surface  but  without 
success.  His  mother  would  relapse  into  silence  or, 
without  a  word,  would  hurry  off  to  her  church  and 
return  impenetrably  encased  in  humility,  pale  with 
emotional  satiety.  There  was  something  abnormal 
about  her  then,  something  unnatural  that  made  Rene's 
flesh  creep.  When  it  had  passed  he  would  feel  once 
more  the  wildness  in  her  that  she  kept  so  savagely  re- 
pressed. 

He  recognized  at  last  that  he  was  staying  on  in  the 
hope  of  penetrating  her  defenses.  Having  come  to 
that,  he  attacked  her  one  night  when  George  and  Elsie 
were  out,  and  he  knew  there  was  no  service  at  the 
church  for  her  to  escape  to.  Like  the  dutiful  husband 
he  was,  George  made  a  practice  of  taking  Elsie  to  a 
music-hall  once  a  week,  a  music-hall  or  two  cinemas, 
as  she  chose. 

Mrs.  Fourmy  had  put  down  her  knitting  and  said : 

"I  think  I  would  like  a  game  of  patience,  Rene." 

He  put  out  the  table  and  the  cards  and  they  played. 
He  said: 

"I  wonder  how  you  can  stand  seeing  them  play  the 
old,  old  game." 

"What  old  game?" 

"Marriage.  Killing  each  other  in  the  first  few 
weeks  and  then — humbug." 

"George  is  a  very  good  husband  and  father." 

364 


THE  COMFORT  OF  RELIGION 

"He  lives  with  a  woman  in  his  house  and  children 
come  automatically." 

"He  is  very  good  to  Elsie." 

"He  placates  her." 

Mrs.  Fourmy  took  out  the  ace  of  diamonds  and 
covered  it.  Rene  said: 

"Do  you  ever  think,  mother,  of  how  we  used  to  say 
we'd  go  and  live  together?" 

"Sometimes.     I  knew  it  was  just  nonsense." 

Her  eyes  gave  him  a  quick  little  affectionate  glance, 
searching  for  affection.  Ah!  that  was  better. 

"Not  such  nonsense,  either.  Why  shouldn't  you  go 
and  live  in  Aunt  Janet's  cottage?  It  was  that  I  was 
thinking  of,  though  I  never  thought  it  would  be  mine." 

"I'd  be  so  lonely." 

"No  lonelier  than  you  are  here." 

"No." 

That  escaped  her  involuntarily.     She  covered  it  up. 

"You're  too  old  for  that  sort  of  talk,  Rene.  You're 
not  a  boy  any  longer." 

"I'm  much  younger  than  I  was  then." 

"Yes,  that's  true.     Would  you  come  too?" 

"No.     I — I'm  going  south  again." 

"Have  you  met — her?" 

"Yes." 

"I  thought  so."  Her  hands  trembled.  "Are  you 
— are  you  going  to  live  with  her?" 

"I  hope  so." 

"It  will  be  living  in  sin.  I  couldn't  live  in  your 
house  if  I  knew  that " 

"You  prefer  George?" 

365 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"I — I Please  don't  talk  about  it  any  more, 

Rene." 

"I  must.  You  love  me  far  more  than  you  love 
George,  and  yet  you  prefer  to  accept  a  home  from 
him  rather  than  from  me." 

"Certain  things  are  wrong,  Rene." 

"I  take  my  chance  of  that." 

"We  aren't  given  any  choice." 

"Hell  in  this  world  or  hell  in  the  next." 

"Don't  speak  lightly  of  such  things,  Rene." 

"I  saw  my  father  in  London." 

Mrs.  Fourmy  let  the  cards  trickle  from  her  hands, 
and  sat  staring  at  him  with  weary,  frightened  eyes. 

"You  are  your  father  over  again." 

"He  told  me.  Then  it  was  your  love  or  your  re- 
ligion  " 

"Don't,  Rene,  don't!" 

He  could  not  continue.  He  watched  her  living  again 
in  the  agony  of  the  memory,  righting  with  it,  fighting  it 
back,  stifling  the  hunger  in  herself.  He  rose  to  leave 
her.  She  thought  he  was  already  gone,  and  slipped  to 
her  knees  in  an  attitude  of  prayer. 

Rene  went  to  his  room  at  the  back  of  the  house, 
the  exact  counterpart  of  his  old  den.  He  cursed  that 
jealous  God,  that  brutal  invention  of  cowardice  which 
has  laid  waste  the  western  world.  His  rage  only 
subsided  when  he  came  to  think  of  Cathleen.  He 
took  paper  and  pen  and  wrote  to  her: 

"I  seem  hardly  at  all  different  from  the  boy  who 
used  to  write  to  you.  It  is  almost  exactly  the  same 

366 


THE  COMFORT  OF  RELIGION 

room,  the  same  hour,  only  now  it  is  my  brother  and 
sister-in-law  who  occupy  the  big  bed  in  the  big  front 
room.  The  window  looks  out  at  the  same  lighted 
windows  opposite.  And  I  am  the  same  except  that  I 
know  myself  better  and  am  more  sure.  What  an  ex- 
traordinary phantasmagoria  between  our  parting  and 
our  meeting !  How  worthless  and  external  adventures 
can  be!  How  worthless  and  external  the  more  inti- 
mate relationships!  But  without  adventure,  without 
mistakes,  folly,  suffering,  how  is  that  discovery  to  be 
made  ?  I  suppose  my  brother  never  could  have  made 
it,  but  he  must  have  had,  perhaps  even  now  he  has, 
his  moments  when  his  desire  tugs  against  his  little 
round  of  habits.  He  would  call  himself  a  happy  man, 
and  perhaps  he  is  so.  Perhaps  we  all  get  what  we 
desire.  That  would  be  a  comfortable  creed,  and  I 
could  believe  it  were  it  not  for  my  mother.  One  is 
not  born  of  a  woman  for  nothing.  Something  binds. 
There  is  a  deeper  knowledge  than  that  of  the  mind. 
There  is  in  my  mother  a  quality  with  which  I  feel  at 
home,  free.  But  she  withholds  it  from  me.  I  feel 
she  hates  it  in  me,  as  in  herself,  as  in  my  father.  Hard 
to  find  anything  else  in  common  between  them.  I  told 
you  that  story  of  how  she  surrendered  to  him  when 
he  came  back.  It  must  have  been  that  in  her,  taken 
unawares.  It  had  lived  without  alarm  for  so  long. 
It  had  been  stirred  in  her  when  I  came  back  from 
Scotland  so  full  of  that  idiotic  love  for  you — and  after 
that,  I  can't  follow.  Too  near  to  it  perhaps,  or  per- 
haps it  is  obscured  in  me  by  all  I  have  gone  through 
since.  But  now  she  baffles  me.  She  has  suffered.  Yes.. 

367 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

We  all  suffer,  but  suffering  leads  to  discovery,  to  joy, 
or  life  is  altogether  barren.  She  suffers,  she  must 
suffer  from  living  here  in  the  dull  house,  but  she  takes 
her  suffering  and  bottles  it  up,  sterilizes  it  with  re- 
ligion. Her  comfort !  From  the  bottom  of  my  heart  I 
hate  it.  When  she  is  full  of  what  she  calls  her  re- 
ligion, then  I  can  only  bear  with  her  by  my  inborn 
knowledge  of  her,  and  for  that  only  the  more  do  I 
detest  the  poison  that  has  ruined  her  splendid  life. 
And  how  it  has  been  exploited,  this  voluptuous,  sel- 
fish pleasure  which  they  dare  to  call  prayer  and  wor- 
ship, this  cowardly  refusal  to  follow  suffering  wither- 
soever it  leads.  I  cannot  be  tolerant  about  it.  To 
thousands  I  know,  it  is  no  more  than  bridge  or  bowls 
to  my  brother  George,  a  pastime.  But  with  her,  and 
with  all  who  have  a  capacity  for  suffering,  it  is  a  pas- 
sionate negation,  and  to  have  lived  at  all  must  be  a 
horror.  You  see,  I  am  almost  inarticulate  about 
it.  I  have  tried  to  break  through  it  and  failed.  She 
saw,  and  closed  her  eyes,  as  she  must  have  seen  time 
and  again.  The  delight  of  seeing  almost  deliberately 
debased  to  fear.  I  wish  I  were  more  used  to  think- 
ing about  people,  then  I  could  make  it  more  clear. 
But  it  doesn't  seem  much  use,  for  I  go  on  believing 
in  them  and  liking  them  and  expecting  all  sorts  of 
things  that  never  come.  Oh,  the  freedom  that  I  find 
with  you,  and  the  thought  of  you!  Everything  you 
understand,  and  all  the  differences  between  us  we 
can  just  laugh  at  and  use.  I  must  take  you  to  some 
place  where  we  can  build  up  a  healthy  life.  Now 
that  I  have  money,  I  thought  for  a  time  that  we  would 

368 


THE  COMFORT  OF  RELIGION 

go  and  live  in  Scotland  in  my  house.  (How  odd  that 
looks.  I  really  am  pleased  with  my  possessions  for  the 
first  time. )  That  would  not  do.  There  must  be  work 
and  activity.  We'll  have  a  brave  time  making  plans 
to  keep  each  other  and  everybody  we  know  happy  and 
keen.  No  more  grubby  humbugging,  and  no  more 
Mitcham  Mews.  We'll  find  a  way.  .  .  ." 

There  came  a  tap  at  his  door.  He  went  to  open  it. 
His  mother  stood  there. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  bed,  Rene  ?  George  and  Elsie 
came  home  long  ago." 

"I  was  writing  a  letter." 

"You  shouldn't  stay  up,  wasting  the  gas  and  all." 


VII 

CASEY'S  VENTURE 
Fortis  imaginatio  venerat  casum. 

CATHLEEN  replied: 
"I  think  you  are  hard  on  your  mother.  You 
love  her  too  well  to  judge  her,  but  you  read  yourself 
into  her.  You  do  that  with  me  too,  and  I  am  some- 
times alarmed  when  I  think  how  I  may  disappoint 
you.  But  then  I  trust  you  so  completely.  You  give  so 
much  that  what  you  give  turns  at  once  into  a  gift  from 
me  to  you,  and  that  makes  me  give  too.  So  it  goes 
on  like  rain  and  cloud  and  river.  Don't  try  to  upset 
your  little  family.  They  won't  like  it.  Keep  all  the 
upsetting  for  me.  I  love  it  and  need  it  constantly." 

He  was  very  happy  with  this  letter,  carried  it  in  his 
pocket  and  fingered  it  continually.  Under  its  influence 
he  ceased  to  chafe  against  his  surroundings,  and  made 
no  further  attempt  to  force  himself  on  his  mother, 
and  in  her  shy  way  she  seemed  to  take  pleasure  in  his 
exuberance. 

The  Edinburgh  attorney  sent  an  advance  of  f  100. 
He  posted  £20  to  Kilner,  and  besought  him  to  leave 
Mitcham  Mews  and  find  a  studio  or  go  down  into  the 
country.  Another  twenty  he  sent  to  Lotta  for  Ann. 

370 


CASEY'S  VENTURE 

He  bought  his  mother  an  Indian  shawl  and  provided 
Elsie  with  two  dresses,  tailor-made.  The  children 
were  taken  to  a  toy  shop  and  allowed  to  select  three 
treasures  each.  Little  George  hesitated  for  a  long 
time  between  a  helmet  and  a  whip,  and  finally  chose 
the  latter  because  his  small  brother  was  no  good  as 
a  soldier,  but  quite  fair  as  a  horse. 

When  Rene  announced  that  he  must  go,  George  de- 
clared that  they  would  "make  an  evening  of  it,"  and 
they  played  bridge  until  ten,  and  then  in  the  parlor 
Mrs.  Fourmy  drew  soft  music  from  the  old  piano  with 
its  yellow  keys.  Under  her  hand  the  beauty  of  the 
Moonlight  Sonata  seemed  faded,  and  Rene  thought 
sadly  that  it  was  like  the  beauty  of  her  life,  faded  and 
gone  to  dust.  And  as  she  played  he  took  down  the 
old  family  copy  of  Shakespeare,  a  vulgar  edition 
spoiled  with  colored  portraits  of  actors  and  actresses. 
He  opened  it  at  random  and  his  eyes  fell  on  these 
words : 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun 
Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages: 

Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 

Home  art  gone  and  ta'en  thy  wages: 

Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must, 

As  chimney  sweepers,  come  to  dust. 

And  tears  came  to  his  eyes,  and  he  was  filled  with  love 
and  appreciation  for  these  good  kinsfolk  of  his  who 
found  such  wealth  in  their  little  happiness  and  were 
so  easily  consoled  in  their  little  sorrows.  And  in  the 
music  it  seemed  that  he  and  his  mother  could  meet, 
had  found  a  language  which  both  could  understand, 

371 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

a  song  to  unite  passionate  acceptance  and  passionate 
denial  in  the  peace  of  the  soul. 

George  said  he  never  did  think  much  of  classical 
music,  and  asked  Elsie  to  sing  his  favorite  song: 
"Poppyland." 

That  done,  they  joined  hands  and  sang  "For  Auld 
Lang  Syne." 

His  mother  came  to  see  Rene  in  his  bed.    She  said : 

"You  won't  come  again." 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

"I  feel  it.  You've  been  very  good  and  you  have 
made  me  very  happy." 

"Then  I'll  come  again." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  come  again.  You'll  never  be 
the  same.  George  is  always  the  same." 

Rene  remembered  how  his  father  had  said  she  had 
done  her  best  to  keep  them  from  ever  being  men. 

"All  right,  mother.  I  wouldn't  like  it  to  be  a  pain 
for  you  to  see  me." 

She  smiled. 

"It  always  is  pain,  Rene,  dear,  because  I  had  to  let 
you  go." 

He  drew  her  down  to  him  and  kissed  her.  She 
said: 

"An  old  woman  like  me." 

He  whispered: 

"There'll  always  be  some  music  that  I  can  never 
hear  without  thinking  of  you." 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "You  were  always  the  one  to 
listen.  And  your  father  liked  it  too — some  things." 

"I'll  think  of  that  too." 

372 


CASEY'S  VENTURE 

"Yes.  Think  kindly  of  your  father.  We  both  did 
try." 

And  she  crept  away.  Rene  called  after  her,  but  she 
did  not  hear  him.  He  wished  to  keep  her  with  him, 
to  try  to  find  some  word  that  should  comfort  her.  But 
he  knew  at  once  that  the  word  would  elude  him,  that 
there  was  nothing  to  say,  that  he  and  she  were  lost  to 
each  other,  and  must  go  their  ways.  All  his  efforts,  all 
his  hopes  could  wake  no  response  in  her.  The  mention 
of  his  father  made  him  know  how  dearly  she  had 
loved  the  man,  and  he  began  to  perceive  the  subtle 
force  of  love,  how  it  can  live  in  defiance  of  the  will, 
and  even  through  the  failing  of  desire;  how  it  uses 
even  differences,  even  ruptures  to  bind  and  sustain; 
and  how  even  the  most  selfish  souls  are  knit  with 
others,  though  it  be  to  the  destruction  of  every  pleas- 
ant joy.  He  saw  how  little  love  needs  consciousness, 
and  how  desperately  men  stand  in  need  of  it.  Else 
are  they  consumed  in  love,  and  never  for  a  moment 
do  their  lives  take  form  and  color  before  they  sink 
to  dust  again,  not  wholly  created  before  they  are  de- 
stroyed. Ideas  of  Kilner's  came  rushing  back  to 
Rene's  mind,  his  description  of  his  vision,  the  slow 
insistence  on  being  given  expression  and  form  in  paint, 
his  own  helplessness  against  the  tyranny  of  what  his 
eyes  had  seen  and  his  imagination  mastered.  Rene 
began  to  understand  that,  to  lose  sense  of  time,  to 
find  in  himself  also  a  vision  that  had  possessed  him 
always.  Only,  unlike  Kilner,  he  could  not  trace  it 
back  to  any  moment  of  ecstasy,  any  keen  appreciation 
of  some  natural  beauty,  or  the  play  of  light.  Light! 

373 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

That  was  the  creating  idea.  Kilner  responded  to  the 
light  of  the  sun,  Rene  to  the  light  of  the  imagination, 
the  light  of  the  sun  wrought  upon  by  men's  minds,  so 
that  their  life  also  had  its  sun  to  bring  fertility,  and 
make  the  body  a  spirit  and  love  an  intellectual  thing ; 
the  light  of  the  sun  stored  through  all  the  generations 
to  dissipate  the  terrors  of  life  and  the  power  of  death, 
to  concentrate  upon  all  beloved  objects  and  show  them 
in  their  loveliness  as  visions  urging  to  creation.  And 
in  his  love  of  woman  man  seeks  no  reflection  of  his 
light  but  the  flash  of  hers,  that  her  beauty  may  not 
perish. 

Rene  in  his  joy  began  to  sing  to  himself.  It  was 
the  song  Cathleen  had  sung  in  the  woods.  He  could 
see  her  again  as  she  was  there  in  the  green  haze  of 
the  woods,  in  the  dappled  light,  mysterious  and  wild. 

From  that  he  deliberately  turned  away  to  fix  his  gaze 
on  the  humorous  reality,  because  there  was  nothing 
that  he  did  not  desire  to  sweep  into  his  joy.  He  lit  a 
match  and  gazed  round  the  little,  cheaply  furnished 
room,  the  ugly  toilet  service,  the  yellow  dressing-table, 
the  silly  patterned  wall-paper  of  pallid  roses,  the  ex- 
ecrable pictures  on  the  wall.  His  eyes  were  dazzled 
by  the  light,  and  they  ached.  Came  darkness  again, 
and  he  hummed  to  himself  as  he  thought  of  the  mor- 
row and  the  train,  with  its  wheels  humming  along 
the  rails,  taking  him  nearer  the  goal  of  his  desire. 

In  the  morning  George  shook  him  warmly  by  the 
hand  when  he  came  down,  again  as  he  was  putting  on 
his  coat,  and  again,  twice,  as  he  set  out  for  business. 

374 


CASEY'S  VENTURE 

"Good  luck,"  he  said.  "Good  luck,  old  man.  Elsie 
really  has  loved  having  you,  and  I'm  sorry  you're  leav- 
ing dear,  old,  dirty  Thrigsby." 

"Good-by,"  said  Rene.  "I'll  let  you  know  what 
happens  to  me,  if  anything  does.  I  don't  think  I  shall 
stay  in  London." 

"Good-by,  then.  By  George,  I  shall  be  late !"  And 
he  set  off  at  a  run. 

Rene  only  had  ten  minutes  more.  Most  of  that  was 
taken  up  with  seeing  the  children  off  to  the  kinder- 
garten they  attended.  Mrs.  Fourmy  had  stayed  in 
her  bed.  He  went  up  to  see  her.  She  clung  to  him, 
but  spoke  no  word,  and  he  was  too  deeply  moved  to 
speak.  She  looked  old  and  frail  and  very  small  in  her 
bed.  At  last  she  said: 

"You're  glad  to  go?" 

"Yes." 

Her  eyes  looked  hunger  and  reproach.  She  turned 
her  face  away. 

"Good-by." 

"Good-by,  mother.  George  is  a  good  fellow,  isn't 
he?" 

"Oh,  yes.  And  I  find  the  children  a  great  com- 
fort." She  said  that  in  a  perfectly  toneless  voice.  The 
contrast  between  it  and  what  she  had  looked  only  a 
moment  before  shocked  Rene.  He  mastered  himself 
and  kissed  her  and  hurried  away. 

Elsie  said: 

"It  has  been  a  treat.  You  really  are  a  sight  for  sore 
eyes,  Rene.  I  never  thought  you  would  grow  into 
such  a  handsome  man.  I  do  wish  George  didn't 

375 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

have  to  go  to  that  office.     It  makes  him  so  pasty." 
"Let  me  know  when  you  have  a  birthday,"  said 

Rene,  "and  you  shall  have  another  tailor-made." 
"It's  next  week,"  said  Elsie  innocently. 
"Right  you  are.    You  shall  have  it." 

At  last  he  was  in  the  train.  No  sleep  this  time. 
Derby,  Leicester,  Nottingham,  the  hills  by  Elstree, 
London.  A  taxi  took  him  hot  speed  to  the  hostel. 
Cathleen  was  not  yet  back  from  her  work.  Lotta  met 
him  with  a  grave  face.  She  had  had  a  terrible  time 
with  Ann,  who  had  alternated  between  a  dog-like  grati- 
tude to  herself  and  harsh  defiance  of  Cathleen  and 
all  the  other  young  women  of  the  hostel.  The  situa- 
tion had  been  impossible.  To  appease  her  she  was 
allowed  to  see  his  letter,  and  after  a  few  hours'  brood- 
ing on  it — not  without  tears — she  had  demanded  the 
twenty  pounds.  With  that,  apparently,  she  had  cabled 
to  Joe  and  Rita  and  another  friend  in  Canada,  had 
packed  up  her  boxes,  stolen  away  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  got  on  board  at  Southampton,  whither  she 
had  been  traced. 

"Poor  little  Ann,"  said  Rene. 

"I  told  you  she  had  courage." 

"She  has  that.    To  go  out  to  a  new  life " 

"Our  interference  must  have  been  intolerable  to  a 
spirit  like  hers.  But  what  could  we  do?  Even  from 


you " 

"It  is  horrible  that  disasters  should  interfere  with 
human  comradeship." 

"It  is  horrible,  but  they  do  interfere." 


CASEY'S  VENTURE 

"Does  Cathleen  know?" 

"Yes.    I  told  her  last  night." 

"Well?" 

"It  seemed  to  bring  home  to  her  for  the  first  time 
how  terrible  and  ugly  it  was.  You  don't  mind  my 
saying  that,  but  the  past  always  does  cast  its 
shadow." 

"Yes.    It  can  be  dispelled." 

"Only   with  time." 

"Yes." 

Lotta  said: 

"I  like  the  way  you  face  things.  There  is  no  one  like 
you  for  that — except  Cathleen.  .  .  .  Where  will  you 
live  now?" 

"For  the  time  being,  with  Kilner,  I  think." 

"I  found  him  a  little  studio  in  Hampstead.  He  is 
delighted  and  happy  with  it." 

"I'll  go  there  now,  if  you  don't  mind." 

Lotta  gave  him  the  direction,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
by  Tube  he  was  with  Kilner,  whom  he  found  hard 
at  work  at  a  new  Adam  and  Eve,  squaring  the  com- 
position on  to  the  canvas. 

"It's  pouring  money,"  said  Kilner.  "Your  twenty 
pounds  came  one  day  and  the  next  I  heard  that  two 
drawings  of  mine  had  been  sold,  a  head  of  Old  Lunt 
and  a  half-length  of  Martin  patting  a  horse's  rump. 
.  .  .  Casey's  been  up  here  every  day  asking  for  you." 

"Casey?  What  does  he  want?  Money?  I'm  not 
a  millionaire." 

"The  poor  devil  has  to  leave  London.  It's  eating 
up  the  little  piece  of  his  lung  left  by  South  Africa." 

377 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"That's  bad." 

"Seen  anybody?" 

"Only  Miss  Cleethorpe." 

"She's  a  fine  woman.  I  think  I  shall  marry  her. 
She's  twenty  years  older  than  I  am,  but  that  is  just 
about  enough  to  bring  a  woman  within  reach  of  an 
artist." 

"But " 

"Oh!  she  began  it.  We've  already  been  down  to 
her  cottage  in  the  country — I  like  that  too.  You'll 
have  to  fork  out  for  a  wedding  present." 

"I'll  cancel  your  debts.     But,  are  you  really?" 

"Fourmy,"  said  Kilner,  "you're  an  incorrigible  ro- 
mantic. I'm  a  realist,  and  like  love's  young  dream  to 
remain  a  dream.  Life  is  a  long,  slow,  dreary  busi- 
ness, and  I  want  a  woman  I  can  live  with.  .  .  ." 

"Did  you  say  that  to  Lotta?" 

"Not  in  so  many  words,  but  in  effect." 

"Well,  I'm " 

"You're  not  a  bit  glad.  You're  horrified.  Com- 
mon-sense is  and  always  will  be  sordid  to  you.  Lotta 
and  I  cooked  chestnuts  over  a  fire.  We  shall  go  on 
cooking  chestnuts  till  we  die.  How's  Ann?" 

"Gone." 

"I  thought  that  would  happen.  You  and  I  busted 
her  between  us — her  pride,  her  joy  in  living,  her  rather 
slovenly  habits  of  mind.  You  didn't  know  you  were 
doing  it.  I  did.  I'm  an  awful  swine.  I  told  Lotta 
all  about  it — as  we  were  cooking  chestnuts.  She  re- 
fused to  believe  me." 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door,  and  Casey  appeared. 

378 


CASEY'S  VENTURE 

He  rushed  excitedly  at  Rene,  and  began  to  pour  out 
an  excited  tale  of  how  he  had  found  the  very  thing, 
a  livery  yard  at  Rickham,  thirty  miles  out  of  London 
to  the  northwest. 

"Our  station,"  said  Kilner.  "Lotta's  and  mine." 
"It's  a  busy  little  town,  but  it  needs  brisking  up, 
like  you  say,  Mr.  Fourmy;  it  needs  motor-cars  and 
a  garage.  That  yard's  the  very  thing,  only  a  hun- 
dred yards  from  the  station.  There  are  people  with 
cars  living  near,  but  they  have  to  go  five  miles  for 
repairs,  and  the  trades-people  can't  have  cars,  because 
there  is  no  one  to  look  after  them.  It's  the  chance. 
I've  got  an  option  on  the  yard  till  next  week.  Will 
you  take  it  up?  I've  got  a  map.  See?" 

He  produced  his  map  and  showed  the  geographical 
advantages  of  Rickham.  It  had  already  good  water 
and  electric  light.  Its  train  service  had  been  enor- 
mously improved,  and  it  only  needed  the  country  round 
to  be  opened  up.  "Don't  you  see,  Mr.  Fourmy,  it's 
your  idea?" 

Rene  had  half-forgotten  it.  Casey  explained,  and 
showed  the  ring  of  little  country  towns  round  London, 
how  they  had  come  to  life  again,  as  markets,  as  cen- 
ters, and  how  in  many  of  them  factories  were  being 
built  and  all  kinds  of  people  were  coming  out  from 
London  to  live  in  or  near  them. 

Kilner  was  interested,  and  said  to  Rene: 
"So  you  think  that  is  how  things  are  going  to  work 
themselves  out?     It's  an  attractive  idea,  the  country 
for  food,  a  ring  of  industrial  centers,  and  the  ex- 
changes in  the  middle  of  it  all.     Some  sort  of  shape 

379 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

and  design  instead  of  the  muddle  we're  in.  It  might 
even  make  room  for  the  artist." 

Casey  said: 

"When  I  heard  you'd  come  in  for  some  money  I 
couldn't  rest  until  I'd  found  what  I  wanted,  and  there 
it  is.  Will  you  come  in?" 

"I'll  go  down  and  look  at  it,"  said  Rene.  "I'm  quite 
certain  I  can't  live  in  your  Thrigsby  or  your  Londons 
any  more,  and  I  couldn't  live  in  the  country  without 
doing  the  work  of  the  country." 

"Can't  see  you  as  a  farmer,"  said  Kilner. 

Rene  promised  to  go  with  Casey  the  next  day. 

He  was  enchanted  with  Rickham  and  with  the  yard. 
It  had  a  small  Georgian  house  attached  to  it,  and  the 
stables  were  built  round  a  quadrangle  with  a  gallery 
leading  to  rooms  above  them.  Through  the  stables 
was  a  walled  garden,  and  beyond  that  again  a  bowling 
green  by  the  edge  of  a  stream.  The  whole  was  free- 
hold and  wonderfully  cheap.  Rickham  apparently 
was  not  yet  awake  to  its  glorious  future  in  the  English 
democracy  in  spite  of  its  two  cinemas,  and  the  strong 
Liberalism  of  its  opinions.  It  had  one  church  and  fif- 
teen chapels,  a  Salvation  Army  barracks,  and  a  public 
house  every  twenty  yards.  On  the  hill  behind  it  villas 
were  being  erected,  and  along  the  valley  little  houses 
were  being  built  for  workpeople.  On  either  side  of 
the  river  just  outside  the  old  town  the  tall  chim- 
neys of  factories  were  rising  by  the  steel  skele- 
tons of  new  workshops.  Clearly  there  was  some 
truth  in  what  Casey  said.  They  undertook  to  buy 

380 


CASEY'S  VENTURE 

the  stables  and  walked  into  a  lawyer's  office  to  give 
instructions. 

So  certain  had  Casey  been  that  Rene  would  come  in 
with  him  that  he  had  already  engaged  mechanics  in 
London,  and  written  up  to  various  firms  to  apply  for 
agencies.  They  were  bombarded  with  applications 
from  the  local  builders  to  carry  out  the  necessary  al- 
terations, and  on  the  advice  of  their  solicitor  arranged 
a  contract.  Before  any  work  was  begun  Casey  insisted 
on  having  an  illuminated  sign,  "Garage,"  fixed  above 
the  gate,  and  below  it,  the  name  of  the  firm,  "Casey  & 
Fourmy." 

"Looks  like  business,  that,"  he  said,  as  they  stood 
in  the  street  and  surveyed  it  with  satisfaction.  "Give 
the  town  something  to  talk  about.  No  advertisement 
like  talk." 


VIII 
THRIVING 

"Were  you  married  in  a  church,  Ursula?" 

"We  were  not,  brother:  none  but  gorgios,  cripples,  and 
lubbenys  are  ever  married  in  a  church :  we  took  each  other's 
words." 

MEANWHILE  his  relations  with  Cathleen  re- 
mained in  abeyance.  What  she  had  accepted  in 
the  excitement  of  events,  she  needed  to  reconcile  with 
her  calmer  thoughts.  That  was  not  so  easy.  She  was 
brought  to  doubt  of  herself.  She  had  been  more 
hurt  than  she  had  realized,  and  she  feared  she  was  too 
weak  for  the  suffering  that  filled  her.  For  many 
weeks  it  was  a  pain  to  her  to  see  Rene,  for  she  could 
not  but  remember  the  destruction  and  misery  he  had 
brought  into  other  lives.  She  had  no  support,  for 
her  rupture  with  her  family  had  made  an  end  of  the 
ideas  in  which  she  had  been  instructed  as  a  child,  and 
she  had  no  experience  to  draw  upon,  and  Lotta's  the- 
ories, when  it  came  to  cold  practice,  vanished  into 
the  air.  She  could  not  avoid  jealousy  of  the  past; 
and,  with  that  in  her,  she  could  not  bring  herself  to 
take  the  plunge  into  a  life  so  different  from  any  she 
had  ever  imagined.  Rene  was  so  patient,  and  had 

382 


THRIVING 

flung  himself  with  such  ardor  into  his  new  work,  that 
she  had  begun  to  tell  herself  that  he  had  no  need  of 
her,  that  she  too  was  in  a  sense  his  victim,  since  his 
meeting  with  her  had  enabled  him  to  break  with  the 
past  only  to  thrust  the  weight  of  it  upon  her.  The 
superficiality  of  her  conceptions  was  betrayed  and 
made  plain  to  her,  broken  up  by  one  fixed  idea,  the 
thought  of  Ann's  child.  How  could  he  have  let  that 
go?  How  could  he  thrust  that  back  into  the  past? 
How  could  his  feeling  for  herself  have  broken  clear 
of  that  ?  And  Ann  ?  How  could  she  set  thousands  of 
miles  between  herself  and  him?  If  she  had  stayed, 
they  could  have  wrestled  with  the  reality.  They  could 
have  made  provision  in  their  lives  for  the  inimical  new 
life.  But  Ann,  in  her  desperation,  had  left  them  to 
deal  only  with  an  idea,  a  shadow,  a  memory.  Rene 
apparently  could  ignore  it.  He  was  full  of  enthusiasm 
and  happiness.  He  seemed  to  consider  Ann's  flight 
as  a  declaration  of  independence  and  to  acquiesce  in 
it.  Had  he  felt  nothing  at  all?  Could  a  man  come 
in  contact  with  that  mystery  and  remain  unmoved? 
Must  not  such  defiance  of  Nature  be  fraught  with 
appalling  consequences,  to  end  in  the  worst  state  of 
all,  indifference  ? 

She  hugged  her  difficulties  to  herself,  and  dared 
speak  of  them  to  no  one,  for  she  was  possessed  by  the 
shyness  bred  by  a  fixed  idea.  At  last  Lotta  caught 
her  out  in  deliberate  avoidance  of  Rene  and  asked 
what  had  come  to  her.  Little  by  little  she  dragged  her 
trouble  out  of  her,  and  tried  to  reassure  her  and  bring 
her  to  reason. 

383 


YOUXG  EARNEST 

"You  should  ask  him  about  it,"  she  said.  "He  must 
have  thought  it  out  He  did  not  forget  her.  You 
must  remember  that.  It  was  not  a  case  of  his  feeling 
for  you  wiping  her  out  of  his  mind.  My  own  view  is 
that  Nature  is  entirely  indifferent,  and  I  don't  believe 
parents  and  children  do  naturally  and  inevitably  have 
any  feeling  for  each  other.  Indeed,  Nature  is  so 
indifferent  that  our  thoughts  about  it  are  rather  im- 
pertinent. It  is  obvious  that  children  do  not  always 
bind  men  and  women,  and  I  imagine  they  must  often 
have  the  contrary  effect;  always,  I  should  say,  when 
they  have  for  each  other  only  the  kind  of  selfish  af- 
fection which  resents  any  intrusion.  Surely  that  is 
why  so  many  women  turn  from  their  husbands  to 
their  children " 

The  word  "intrusion"  brought  Cathleen  to  the  crux 
of  her  difficulty.  She  saw,  with  some  exaggeration, 
that  this  was  her  condition,  and  the  quality  of  her 
affection,  that  she  had  been  hungering  for  possession 
of  her  lover  with  no  intrusion  from  the  past. 

"O  Lotta,"  she  said,  "we  are  fools  to  set  our  faces 
against  what  cannot  be  altered.  I  thought  I  had  broken 
away  from  narrow  conventions,  but  I  had  only  rid 
myself  of  the  names  of  things,  not  of  the  things  them- 
selves, the  silly  pretense  that  people  wake  for  a  mo- 
ment out  of  a  sleep  in  which  nothing  can  happen,  love 
and  go  to  sleep  again.  We  are  stupid,  trying  to  keep 
all  our  loves  separate.  We  can't  do  anything  but  stum- 
ble from  one  love  to  another,  can  we?" 

"It  is  what  all  of  us  do,  and  Nature  has  to  take  her 
chance.  It  is  degrading  to  have  one's  folly  and  weak- 

384 


THRIVING 

ness,  even  one's  mistakes,  used  by  Nature,  but  that  is 
the  way  of  the  world,  and  I  think  a  real  love  can  al- 
ways get  the  better  of  it." 

"I  have  tried  so  hard." 

"You  should  see  it  from  his  point  of  view.  Suppose 
it  was  you  who  had  been  trapped  by  Nature's  indif- 
ference. You  would  feel  hardly  used  if  he  let  jealousy 
stand  between  you  and  him." 

"But  Rene  couldn't." 

"Perhaps.  Why  should  you?  It  really  does  hurt 
me  to  see  you  two  wasting  time  and  youth,  two  abso- 
lutely free  people  in  a  world  that  takes  its  greatest 
pride  in  its  waste  of  opportunity.  You  are  behaving 
abominably.  Really,  if  you  let  him  be  much  longer  he 
will  settle  down  with  Mr.  Casey,  and  discover  that  he 
can  do  at  any  rate  comfortably  without  you,  and  keep 
you  as  an  ideal.  That  happened  to  me  when  I  was  a 
girl.  I  let  things  slip  by  until  I  woke  up  one  fine  day 
to  find  that  I  was  nothing  but  an  ideal  and  had  no 
hope  of  ever  becoming  anything  else,  even  though  I 
had  married  him.  So  I  never  did.  Love  changes, 
like  everything  else.  It  grows  in  us  and  dies.  Very 
short  is  the  time  when  it  can  be  taken  and  built  into 
our  lives.  If  that  time  be  let  slip  away  then  love 
dies  down.  If  that  happens,  then  life  can  never  be 
anything  more  than  amusing." 

"If  it  should  be  too  late?"  said  Cathleen,  alarmed. 

"It  won't  be,"  replied  Lotta;  "he  has  been  to  me 
and  I  said  I  would  send  you  down  to  him." 

At  the  week-end  Cathleen  went  to  Rickham.  She 
found  Rene  in  overalls  taking  down  the  back  axle  of  a 

385 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

car.  His  face  and  hands  and  hair  were  smeared  with 
grease. 

"Hullo!"  he  said. 

And  Cathleen  answered: 

"I  hope  I'm  not  in  the  way." 

"All  right.  Only  stand  clear  of  the  machine.  There 
never  was  such  ubiquitous  stuff  as  motor  grease.  I 
shan't  be  long.  It's  a  broken  crown-wheel,  I  think — 
Oh!  here's  Casey.  Casey,  take  Miss  Bentley  round 
the  garden.  Have  tea  in  the  parlor,  and  I'll  join  you 
when  I've  cleaned  up." 

It  was  a  couple  of  hours  before  Rene  joined  them. 
During  that  time  Cathleen  had  to  listen  to  his  praises, 
and  to  hear  how  the  business,  after  a  slow  beginning, 
had  begun  to  pick  up,  until  now  they  had  almost  as 
much  work  as  they  could  do  with  their  present 
staff. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Rene.  "It's  a  new  customer,  and 
he  wants  the  car  for  to-morrow  morning,  and  I 
couldn't  take  any  of  the  men  off  their  jobs.  It  is  good 
to  see  you.  Have  you  seen  the  house  ?" 

No.    Casey  had  only  shown  her  the  garden. 

After  tea  Rene  took  her  over  the  house. 

"It  wants  you,"  he  said. 

"I  knew  that.    I  sent  in  my  resignation  yesterday." 

"When  will  you  come?" 

"In  a  month's  time." 

"Forever  and  ever?" 

"It  feels  like  that  now." 

"Yes.  There  doesn't  seem  to  have  been  anything 
but  you  and  I.  You're  a  little  slip  of  a  woman  to  fill 

386 


THRIVING 

the  whole  world."  And  he  lifted  her  clean  off  her 
feet.  She  lay  back  in  his  arms  and  her  eyes  closed, 
and  he  could  feel  her  whole  body  surrender  to  his 
strength,  her  whole  spirit  come  out  to  meet  his  in 
love. 


JX 

YOUNG  LOVE  DREAMING 

EVERY  year  they  visited  Scotland  and  brought  new 
stores  of  happiness  to  the  dell  where  they  had 
first  discovered  it.  Always,  Rene  declared,  through 
their  joy  there  ran  the  song  of  the  burn,  and  the  wind 
in  the  trees,  the  beauty  that  had  first  awakened  him. 
.They  made  high  holiday.  Cathleen  liked  to  stroll 
about  the  woods  or  lie  in  them  with  a  book  (she  could 
hardly  get  him  to  read  at  all).  He  loved  to  wander 
over  the  moors  alone  or  to  go  striding  over  the  hills, 
and  to  come  back  to  her  in  the  evening.  When  they 
spent  their  days  apart  they  would  meet  in  the  dell, 
and,  as  of  old  time,  he  would  make  a  couch  of  bracken 
for  her.  And  he  would  lie  by  her  side  and  rejoice  in 
her  beauty,  fondle  her,  praise  her,  tease  her. 

"I  don't  believe,"  he  would  say,  "we  shall  ever  be 
old." 

"Not  when  you  look  at  the  children"  (they  had 
three)  "and  see  how  they  grow?" 

"Least  of  all  then.  I  watch  them  and  discover  new 
worlds  in  them,  and  often  through  them  I  discover 
new  wonders  in  you." 

"Don't  you  know  me  by  this  time  ?" 

"Every  day  I  find  you  more  astonishing  and  strange. 
388 


YOUNG  LOVE  DREAMING 

Sometimes  I  come  into  your  room  in  the  morning  and 
watch  you  sleeping,  and  I  feel  very  lonely  then.  You 
are  so  remote.  It  is  like  waiting  for  the  dawn.  Then  I 
see  consciousness  waking  in  you.  Then  your  eyes 
open  and  you  gaze  innocently  out  upon  the  world. 
And  you  see  me  and  are  satisfied." 

"And  you?" 

"I  know  that  another  day  has  come,  another  op- 
portunity, a  new  turn  in  the  adventure." 

"Is  it  always  an  adventure?" 

"Always.    Unending  desire." 

"For  me,"  she  said,  "it  is  peace  and  knowledge. 
It  would  be  stifling  if  I  had  not  you  to  kindle  them." 

Rene  kissed  her  and  laughed: 

"The  whole  duty  of  man,"  he  said,  "to  keep  the 
flame  alight  in  woman." 

She  became  serious  on  that. 

"It's  true,  Rene.  You  nearly  let  me  wither  away, 
and  my  life  dwindle  to  ashes.  I  am  often  sick  with 
fear  when  I  think  of  it,  how  near  I  came  to  being  one 
of  your  failures." 

On  such  evenings  they  would  talk  until  darkness 
crept  into  the  woods,  and  they  woke  to  their  mysteri- 
ous night  life  when  their  sweetest  songs  are  sung,  and 
they  are  filled  with  magic  snares  and  lurking  dangers 
and  conflicts.  Sweet  comfort  was  it  to  be  together 
then  amid  so  much  menace  and  alien  power,  and  they 
would  go  warily  hand  in  hand  until  they  came  within 
sight  of  the  lights  of  the  great  house.  Then  they 
would  almost  run  until  they  reached  the  open  lawn 
where  the  free  air  would  beat  upon  their  faces. 

389 


YOUNG  EARNEST 

"I  always  feel,"  Rene  said  once,  "as  though  we  had 
had  a  narrow  escape." 

"In  the  woods,  do  you  mean,  or  in  life?" 

"Both." 

"Escape  from  what,  my  dear?" 

"I  know,"  he  said.  "This  is  the  truth  of  us.  Escape 
from  sleep  and  death." 


o 


P%SC3;,',AL  ja^ASr  F/ttt  TT 


A     000  029  978     4 


